Ixnay
by SaintDogStreet
Summary: AU. Last time Dean saw Sam, he was a kid leaving for college. Now, he's a ruthless, sarcastic hunter who just saved Dean's life. The question is, what the heck happened to Dean's little brother? Hurt!Limp!Amnesiac!Sam, Hurt!Protective!Dean.
1. Perdita di Memoria

_Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, places, canon plotlines, or pop culture references you see herein. And I don't have a lawyer, but I do have a dog. So watch out._

_Warnings: Violence, Profanity, some sexual situations, and cliché-ness abound._

_A/N: Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls of all ages, I present to you: Ixnay. It is a labour of love, and I'm a bit nervous about it, but here goes nothing. Enjoy._

----------------------------------------------

_Thud._

There was dust floating through the air in front of him, coloured red and green and blue from the light filtering through the stained glass windows. Above him, an angel with a hole through his face looked down, the coloured glass broken to show a single patch of night sky and the dark spaces between the stars.

_Thud._

It took him a minute to realize that what he was seeing was wrong. Sideways. He was lying on the floor, face pressed against the cool dust. The moment it took to re-orientate himself gave him vertigo, and nausea followed.

_Thud._

Shit.

He still wasn't quite all there- somewhere in the back of his mind his subconscious was cataloguing his injuries in a clinical voice- _Just regained consciousness. Arm, broken. Concussion, likely. Situation, screwed.- _but the rest of him was dizzy and questioning. Where was he?

_Thud._

Oh. Right. Church. Well, cathedral. Abandoned and breaking down and being broken into by one pissed off ogre.

_Thud._

By the sound of it, the ogre had either ripped a tree from the ground to use as an impromptu battering ram, or he was simply throwing his massive, fugly body against the door repeatedly.

_Thud._

Really, he wouldn't be surprised by either. But he'd probably go with the latter- Ogie hadn't struck him as the sharpest needle in the haystack.

_Thud._

Heh. Maybe he was still a bit more out of it than he thought, he doubted he'd be mixing his metaphors if he was running on all four cylinders.

_Thud._

ROOAAWR.

Or, you know, be worried about mixing his metaphors when a two-tonne steaming sack of muscle and bloodlust was trying to smash down the door of his current hiding spot.

The church was old and crumbling, but the door should hold. Oak, sturdy and thick, it looked like it had weathered too many centuries of storms and bandits and heathens to be broken down by some jacked-up little green man.

_Thud._

But, you know, better safe than sorry. He peeled himself off the floor, waited for the room to stop impersonating a merry-go-round, and evaluated the situation. Calm and professional, movements fluid. Nerves make you sloppy. And who gets nervous because of one measly little ogre?

His arm hurt like a bitch. It was probably only a minor fracture, but the skin was red and purple, bruised, and it looked funny. A Picasso arm, not quite how it was supposed to be. There was a bump there, in the middle, and he could imagine the bone bent out of whack just under his skin, spider webs of fracture snaking through it. It throbbed, sharp and slow. Well, that was one arm out of commission. But that was okay. He could take on Mr. Ogre one-handed. Sure.

He had a vague memory of splinting it tightly with a few straight sticks, courtesy of the apple orchard outside, and the remains of one of his dark-coloured t-shirts. His navy blue button down, the nicest article of clothing he owned that wasn't military surplus, had been sacrificed to make a sling. The arm was held tight against his chest, and would be fine for a little while longer until he could get professional help. It still sucked. But he took the pain in with a slow breath, controlling it.

_Thud._

Weapons...hmmm...knife, knife, knife, and fuckin' bad ass huge knife? Check. Semi-Auto Pistol? Check. Shot gun? Eh, not so much. Bullets? A bit shy on those too. Cross bow? MIA. Cross bow bolts? Fat lotta good those will do. Wooden stake? Toast. Holy water? Who cares? Salt? Present and accounted for and not worth its weight in...well, you know.

Oh, wait...RPG? Hell yeah.

He was glad he had decided to invest in some heavy artillery the last time he cruised through Florence, and that the weapons dealer he'd been negotiating with had thrown in the grenade launcher as a bonus. Damn Ogie had chased him around the last three days through Bumfuck, Italy. Pretty cobbled streets, Tuscan sunrises and fields of nothing, yeah, would look very nice in a brochure or hanging above a mantel, but was a bitch to be on the lam in. It was a little unusual to see an Ogre this far south, but that hadn't seemed to bother Ogie or its rampage. His bike had been spread across the last paved road going into town like butter over bread, he was wet, hungry, tired, and bleeding, and the damn bastard wouldn't go down.

The ogre really shouldn't have been a problem. A couple of worried villagers, some _No Signors _and _Yes Signorinas, _a little firepower and bam- he should've been in and out before you could say lasagna.

Nah, the ogre hadn't been a problem- it was the hoarde of vampires who were using the ogre as a handy distraction that had put up a fuss.

A few beheadings, some shish-kabob action, one seriously hot potential nun-to-be, and a car chase involving a Lamborghini and his now DOA motorcycle later and the vamps were extinct. Expunged. Exterminated. Ex- dammit, he had to have a concussion.

Anyway, he had somehow managed to drag himself through an orchard, trying to get back to town, when Mr. Ogie decided to make his reappearance. He thought he had bought him some more time by holing up in the empty cathedral, but apparently Ol' Green and Ugly had caught up. Huh. Maybe it was smarter than it looked.

Wait...something was missing. He looked around the cathedral slowly, taking in its stone-and-mortar carcass. Vacant pews, vacant altar, dust and shadows. Nothing to see here folks, move along. The air was still, silent.

Oh, shit.

The ogre hadn't made a sound in the last...he checked his mental clock, furiously back-pedaling and cursing, trying to fight his way through the steam and fog of the concussion. Fifteen minutes. Tops. Absolute silence.

Oh, shit, shit, shit.

Apparently Ogie had abandoned trying to phase itself through the door, beam me up, Scotty. Which posed the question...where the fuck was it now?

He raised the RPG, and spun in a slow, _slow_, fuck concussions, circle. Dead silence. Dead still.

Bad choice of words.

"Here kitty, kitty, kitty," He called into the darkness, eyes glinting, taking in every shape and movement, predatorily.

"Come on out to play, kitty..."

The hooded leather jacket rustled just a breath above silence. He moved with the quicksilver grace and violence of an animal on the hunt.

He was.

The wind was silent through the leaves of the apple trees in the orchard. The faceless angel, arms out, belied no movement in the shadows of the night behind it. The sun was still an hour or so off from rising, but the air was thin and moist with the expectance of dawn. His breath came out in puffs of fog.

Dammit, he was getting edgy. Still, he didn't so much as twitch or sneeze. Almost two years of practice, and a brain-load of instinct had trained him well. He could play the strong and silent card, too.

_SLAM!_

The faceless angel shattered into a million pieces of colour, splinters of glass hitting the stone floor and sending dust-devils whirling into the air. A hulking shape, huge and tightly muscled with coils of sinew, bulgy and sweating and ugly, launched itself through the window right at him.

He threw himself to the left. Little needles of red and gold and green glass gored into his skin, but the dark body of the ogre overshot. The ogre hit the hard floor with a smash that rattled the tiny church and probably woke up god, before wheeling around to face him with a roar. The thing was freakin' huge- he was six-foot-ridiculous himself, and the monster hulked and loomed over him.

A huff of laughter escaped him, "You wanna play, kitty? _Hit me with your best shot._"

The ogre roared and charged. He dodged, swirling like a matador to face him again. Okay, plan. He just needed a little distance between them...

Ogie swung a fist the size of a Dalmatian towards his head, he ducked and rolled. There was no use hitting the fucker, its skin was like lead. Swollen, pimply and scarred lead.

The blood in his veins felt carbonated with adrenaline. Zingy. Tangy. Boosted. Red Bull...Concussion. Hooh-boy.

Another hay maker came his way, and the momentum carted the ogre forward, crashing into the empty pews, sending them shuddering and scraping across the flagstone floor.

His back was now against the gaping hole where the no-faced angel had stood and shattered. Cool, Italian and sweet night air washed over him. Heavy with the scent of apples. The perfect chance.

"Hey kitty!" Obsidian eyes bored into his sea-coloured ones. The ogre huffed and snarled, hunched and ready to charge at him. Puffs of steam rose from his slitted nostrils. It had a face like a Pekingese. One clawed hand rested its fingertips lightly on the flagstones in a sprinter's ready position.

"Eat shit."

He flung himself backwards, out the window onto the soft grass and hard ground beneath.

"Oomph." The air made a break for it from his lungs.

Half a second later he twisted up and was off and running. The Ogre roared, came charging towards the window. But the point wasn't to get away from him.

It was to get away from the church.

He turned, leveled the RPG, aimed and _Die Motherfucker! _shot, the force jerking his whole body. The grenade zoomed through the air, a dark falcon spiraling in on Ogie's face. For an instant he saw its confused face, cross-eyed as it focused on the missile, framed by the remaining shards of the stained-glass window.

The cathedral exploded.

He ducked, knees hitting the grass, launcher falling beside him. He threw his good arm up over his head. Stone and oak and holy ground flew up and rained down on him.

After a while, the world stilled.

He breathed slowly into the damp earth. Okay, so it hadn't been a great plan. But it had worked. Concussion still there, arm still broken and hurting like Charles Dickens, or whoever the fuck. Church gone, though. He felt a little sad. It had been a neglected little thing, but he had spent the last few hours- days?- holed up in there, sheltered for a short while, bleeding on the flagstones. It was still a place of prayer, even if no one had come to pray for a good long while.

Or, it had been until about fifty seconds ago.

He sighed, breath muffled against the soggy grass. Okay. So. Hospital.

Slowly, he stood up. The orchard stretched ragged and unkempt around him, as neglected as the little steepled cathedral had been. The gently curving hills of northern Italy were rolled out beyond that, the skin of the earth stretched loosely over them, mostly in darkness, with pockets of light from the sparse country towns. He was fairly certain there was a town about a mile to the east, _Abbascia-_something-or-other. He was even fairly certain it had a hospital.

He thought about going west instead, maybe hitching a ride to Milan or Pavia or whatever city was closest, forgoing the hospital trip altogether. He could set his own arm...he had done it before, once, in the sewers of Paris, and while it wasn't an experience he was eager to make a habit of, it was almost better than the _ospedale_.

Still, there was the concussion. The nagging, buzzing concussion that hovered and quivered over his mind. And he didn't dick around with head injuries.

With another drawn-out, dramatic, perfectly appropriate sigh, he set off. Trudged. Hospital it would be. The apple trees passed by him one by one. Dawn was slowly rising in front of him, a thin band of bronze and smelting fires on the horizon.

He didn't dick around with head injuries, wasn't willing to take that chance. Not for the last one-almost-two years.

Not since he had woken from a short coma in a Nevada hospital, bruised, crying, choking, and completely unable to remember anything about his life. Who he was, where he was going, where he had been, and what the fuck he was going to do now.

He had remembered nothing, not a name, a town, or any of the answers to the million and one questions he had.

Nothing, that is, except that, in the darkness, there were darker things. Ghosts and demons and werewolves. He remembered those.

And he remembered how to hunt them.

His steps were driven and determined, hiding away the exhaustion and fine edge of pain. Last night had been a bitch. Injured and hiding, the loneliness- even in the house of God, where he should have found some sort of comfort- had been oppressing. Nobody was there to ride out the pain with him, or the fear that he would've sworn he didn't have if anyone had asked.

He wiped his brown hair out of his eyes. Dammit. It was getting far too long, he'd have to cut it soon. Something like that could be dangerous, a distraction on the hunt.

Rexford Doe looked gauzy-eyed up to the slowly rising sun. The town Abbascia-something-or-other sat cowed on the hillside, warm and inviting and despicable in its charm.

Six minutes from now, a woman sprinkling corn on the dirt for her chickens would give a shriek as a thin, wobbling stranger collapsed on the road in front of her, mouth hitting the dirt. Six minutes later a group of good Samaritans would carry his unconscious body to the hospital.

Six minutes from now, the boy who used to be called Sam Winchester would collapse from exhaustion, after surviving on nothing but will-power, cigarettes, and caffeine for the past two days, in a little whatever-named town in Italy.

Sam was as good as dead.


	2. Jello and Loss

_Disclaimer: Still not mine, thanks for asking though. All characters, places, pop culture references, appliances, and canon plotlines herein belong to somebody else, even if I've stretched and disfigured them beyond recognition. Cheers._

_A/N: First off, thank you, thank you, thank you for all your wonderful reviews. It means a lot to me that you took the time, I hope you're enjoying the story. Here you are:_

* * *

Chapter Two: Jello and Loss

* * *

Dean missed his brother.

It wasn't something he announced to the world. It's not like he cried and bitched about it, sobbed himself to sleep every night or anything. It was just always there, a sharp ache like an elbow to the solar plexus.

He didn't even think about it. Not really. But it was there when he and his dad pulled into a crappy diner off of the highway in the _Sammy, Whaddayou want to eat?_ that he never quite voiced. It was there in the early mornings, when he was still half a sleep and would push the empty air beside him to wake up his brother-who-wasn't-there.

Sammy wasn't there. He wasn't hunting, wasn't driving from leaky motel to leaky fast food restaurant to leaky motel, wasn't with his family, wasn't with his godforsaken big brother. He wasn't there.

Instead, Sam was at Stanford. Living the dream. His dream, anyway. Chatting it up with coeds and joining sports teams and studying and partying and doing god knows what else college kids got up to these days. Smoking pot and shooting up schools, from the sound of the news reports, but really, that didn't seem like his little brother's shtick. Sammy was more of a sulk-and-brood versus a shoot-'em-up kinda guy.

Not that Dean would know, though. For all Dean knew Sammy had blown away half the campus by now. Since he had left, in the flotsam and jetsam of angry words and fighting and- _Stop. Cease. Desist. Don't think about it._

Since he had left, he hadn't answered his cell. Not once. _We're sorry, this number is no longer available..._Dean was sick of that freaking message and that lady's galvanized steel voice. Not to mention, a month after he'd left, Dean's own cell had been smashed to bits. He'd landed on it after doing his best humpty-dumpty impression down the stairs of the house he and his had been trying to rid of its resident supernatural squatter, so Sam couldn't have gotten through unless he was willing to try John's phone. And Dean knew there was a fat chance of _that_ happening. And Sam hadn't picked up. Hadn't called. Hadn't sent a letter, a postcard, a freakin' carrier pigeon, a _singing telegram_ for Christ's sakes. Zip, nada, nothing, ix-nay on the other-bray. Not a word out of the kid that, Jesus, Dean had practically raised.

Okay. That was a little too far. Especially this early in the morning.

But he was worried, okay? Not the fretting, chick-kinda worried. The big brother, it's his _job_ to be worried, kinda worried.

He knew Sam was fine. Logically. Obviously. He was at school, with _normal_ people, higher learning, and all that jazz, but it didn't stop the fierce bubbling of nerves the sizzled deep in his stomach. He knew _why_ Sam hadn't called- the ultimatum his dad had given Sam still scampered about in _Dean's_ mind, let alone what havoc it must be wreaking in Sam's. Sammy felt that he didn't have a family to talk to anymore.

He just wished the kid would call _him_, damn it.

Dean sighed. Okay, way, way too early in the morning to be dealing with all this. Especially before coffee. And breakfast.

He flung the oatmeal coloured duvet onto the oatmeal coloured floor, and wondered who the hell thought 'breakfast cereal' was a good decorating scheme . The carpet squished beneath his feet as he trudged to the bathroom. The other bed was empty (_and so was his_)- Dad was already gone _(and so was he). _John had probably already gotten up for caffeine and a newspaper. Maybe he'd scoped out a decent place for eats by now.

Dean yawned widely, all white teeth and bad morning breath. He rubbed a hand across his jaw and stared droopy-eyed into the bathroom mirror. He needed a shave. And a shower. And a vacation, damn it. Warm beaches and hot sun and girls in tiny, tiny bikinis. Fruity drinks with tiny, tiny umbrellas, waves and surfer girls and life guards and- had he fallen asleep with Baywatch reruns on again? Nothing out of the ordinary, but a little awkward with his dad in the room. Oh well. The vacation thing stood.

The shower squeaked when he turned the faucet. Pam Anderson sat lithe and toned on his mind, a nice cleavaged distraction from his morning angst. Fifteen minutes (a bit longer than normal, but hey, Pamela was still there), a quick brush of the teeth later, and he was packed and out the door, ready for _anything._

He still wished Sammy would call.

* * *

John swallowed the rest of his coffee quickly. Black, drinkable but not enjoyable. The only diner in town seemed to be held up by the prayers and good faith of its owner. John hoped he was a church-going man. The food wasn't great, and the waitresses were worse, but at least there was a lot of both. Quantity over quality. He wanted to be out of this town already- they'd been in it for maybe eight hours and he was itching to leave.

Dean slid into the pleather seat across from him. He looked tired and haggard and drained, old beyond his years. It wasn't a whole lot worse than the look he'd had for the last two years.

"What've we got?" He asked, waving a hand towards the newspaper blanketing the table. He stifled a yawn.

"Nothing near by. I'm thinking of heading west." They could probably dig up _something_ nearby if they worked at it, but John was tired of this whole damn half of the country. A change would be good, for both of them. He eyed his son, not at all missing the way Dean's eyes woke up at the mention of going west.

West. _Sammy._

God, it hurt. More than a little. John Winchester was used to pain, took it and bore it, maybe not with ease, but with experience. But this _hurt_ like (almost) nothing he'd ever felt before. He burned just thinking about his youngest son. It was like someone had taken the bullet-hole left when Mary died and stuck their fingers in it and clawed it open. He felt gaping, empty, hollow.

Dean's eyes had questions in them, but he stayed silent. He rattled off a half-dozen breakfast items and one cup of strong coffee when the waitress finally arrived, eyes still bright.

_How far west?_ He wanted to ask. How far would they go? Until they hit California? Palo Alto? Warm sandy beaches and Sasquatch little brothers?

He pulled a Hoover on his breakfast, downed the coffee like a dying man in the desert. It scalded his throat and left his taste buds dead and dying, but he could care less. They were going to see his little brother. Sammy might not want to see them, but they were going to check up on him. Hell, they might not even talk to him, but Dean would be able to stand at a distance, see that his little brother was still living, still breathing, still there.

_West_. He grinned. Fuck vacations. Who needs 'em? He had a job to do.

John smiled, a subtle turn of the eyes. To see his oldest son Dean look actually, totally happy for the first time in a long time went a long way towards putting a band-aid over the bullet hole. Knowing that soon, very soon, he would get to see his youngest son again went even farther.

He paid the check quickly, tipped reluctantly, and then got out of there like a bat outta hell. Fuck the Midwest.

They were going west.

* * *

_Almost two years ago._

He hurt. It was dull and achy and sharp and threatened to destroy him all at once. Ceaseless, never-ending, wave on wave.

He hurt and he was alone.

6 days, 7 hours, 14 minutes, and 32...33...34 seconds ago, he had woken up from an incredibly short coma in a hospital a ways north of Las Vegas.

When he had woken up, all 6 days, 7 hours, 14 minutes and 58...59...15 minutes ago, he had listened to the doctor calmly, nodded in the right places and took in the list of injuries and recovery time and tangle of medical jargon without saying a word.

They he had asked who the hell he was.

A flurry, a whirlwind, a natural disaster of tests later, and the doctor had no idea what to tell him. Retrograde amnesia. Shadows on his MRI. Emotional trauma. Fucking nothing.

He couldn't remember a thing about who he was, and why the hell he was there. His life was a soap opera.

The nurse, the cute one with strawberry-blonde hair and a sad smile, had given him all of his personal possessions. The ruined wreckage of what was once a button-down shirt, a pair of jeans, two socks- a black and a white one- and one single tennis shoe. He felt like his tennis shoe. Discarded and incomplete and alone, missing the most important half of him.

No wallet, no driver's license, no cell phone, no grocery list, no Dear John letter, no birth certificate, no barcode that could be scanned telling him exactly who he was and where he came from. Just the bloody scraps of cheap clothing, and a Greyhound bus ticket, crumpled in the front pocket of his Levi's. One-way to Las Vegas, Nevada, from Rexford, Kansas.

The nurses in administrating had changed "John Doe" to "Rexford Doe" on all of his forms and paper work, and the pretty strawberry-blonde nurse had called him Rex until it stuck.

The coma went away, but the exhaustion stayed. So did the pain. And the despair. Oh, and the angst.

He hung out in the hospital, sandwiched between the sterile white sheets, for a week after he woke up. He was waiting for the doctors to clear him, the bruising to die down- and yeah, where the hell that came from he didn't know- but mostly, for somebody to come and claim him.

He waited. And waited.

Surely there had to be somebody out there looking for him, right? People don't just disappear. They don't fall off the map, never to be seen from again. Somebody had to miss him.

Right?

19 hours, 7 minutes, and 45 seconds after he woke up, the cops came to talk to him. They were polite and hushed and took his statement with sympathetic smiles, and they had fuck-all of answers. They posted his picture, the one that the almost-redheaded nurse (_and her name was Sherry, and wasn't that nice?) _took, on the 5 o'clock news, posted it again on the 7 o'clock, and kept it running for the whole week he stayed.

They called as often as they remembered. Or, as often as Rex gave sweet despairing puppy dog eyes to Sherry that made her call and bother them. No, no one had called in to claim him (_And where was he, the lost and found?)._ No, there were no missing persons reports filed that matched his description. No, no one was looking for him. Sherry gave him her sad little smile when she told him this, every day for a week, and sometimes twice a day when the pain meds made him loopy and high as a kite and he asked more than once.

The nurses liked him. The doctors liked him. He was polite and good-looking and non-threatening and tragic. They mothered him and consoled him and he slowly suffocated in the bright white walls of Caliente General Hospital.

* * *

Rex didn't know if he liked blue jello. It was lunch time, and Sherry had brought him flavorless chicken and stringy vegetables with the slightly happier version of her sad smile. There was jello for dessert. It wiggled, as jello should. And sat on his stupid metal hospital tray challenging him.

It was blue. Bright, unnatural blue. And he hadn't eaten a bite. And he didn't know if he liked it.

He should remember. He should remember _something_. Liking blue jello seemed like a good place to start. Slowly, so as not to frighten it, he reached out and poked it with his fork.

It wiggled.

What if he didn't like blue jello? What if he didn't like it in his past life, his life before Caliente General? What if whoever he was hated blue jello with a fiery burning passion?

What if he took a bite and _loved_ it? Even though he loathed it before. Wouldn't he lose a piece of himself? A piece that he couldn't remember, from somebody he couldn't remember being, but of him nonetheless.

He touched the jello again. It wobbled and the absurdity of the situation hit him like an Acme anvil. Rex choked on a sob. He was resting all of his hopes on _jello._ Fucking _jello._

Freaky blue jello.

A while passed, and he forgot to count the hours and minutes and seconds. Sherry came in to take his tray away. She looked at his mostly uneaten pre-processed chicken and the green sludge of vegetables and smiled. Sadly. Or maybe she frowned happily. It was hard to tell.

"You need to eat, Rex," She chided, "You need to build your strength back up."

He tried to force a smile back at her, but his mouth didn't seem to work properly.

"So," She prodded, "Do we remember anything today?"

Her voice was gentle, like she was dealing with something fragile. Oh. Right. Him.

Rex shook his head. "Sherry..."

He put a little bit of charm into his voice. He hoped it was charm. What was charm like, again?

"Sherry, I think I'm going to leave."

There was no thinking about it. He was blowing this joint. He needed to get out, to get out of the stupid white walls and the stupid white sheets, and he needed to breathe.

"Oh!" Her voice fluttered, like he had shocked her. Her words were pre-processed, like the chicken. But she seemed genuinely concerned. "You shouldn't go until the doctors clear you, Rex. You still need to relax. To recover. And what about the police report? What about the news? What about-"

"It's been a week. If somebody was looking for me here, they would've found me."

Sad, slow, smile.

"But where will you go?" She asked. Huh. He hadn't really thought about that one.

"Rexford. That's where I came from, right? If," He swallowed. "If somebody is missing me, they'd be there."

It had been a one-way ticket. One way. He hadn't been planning on going back.

Sherry nodded and had made soothing noises like she understood and it would all be alright.

His last days in Caliente General passed in a blur. But there was excitement there, now. Some spice to the lethargy. Rex had a plan, he was going somewhere. Destination gave him determination.

The doctors had been reluctant to let him go. They had warned him about the dangers of leaving not fully healed, but he was healed enough. He could walk, couldn't he? Once they were fairly certain he wasn't going to sue them if something (else) bad happened, they eased off. Then there had been some speed bumps about whether or not child services should take him. He couldn't remember his age, but he was obviously young.

Rexford swore up and down that he remembered he was eighteen, and really, there was nothing the three nurses, two doctors, one social worker and two coppers could do about it once he decided to go. There was nothing left for him there.

There was nothing left for him anywhere. He couldn't remember a thing.

Oh yeah, except for the demons.


	3. Hell and High Water

_Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, places, corporations, blah, blah, blah don't belong to me._

_A/N: Again, thank you all for the reviews! They are so very motivating. Here's the next chapter for you._

* * *

Chapter Three: Hell and High Water

* * *

_6 days, 7 hours, 14 minutes and 45 seconds ago..._

The world was underwater. Which was weird, because he was pretty sure the world was a hospital room. It had the crisp, stand-offish cleanliness and retina-searing whiteness of a hospital room, not to mention the smell of a hospital room. Bleach. Fake pine. Fake lemon. Sterility and dying.

Things were blurry, vision and sound, like he was under the sea. Everything was drifting and slow. He tried to call out, to breathe little carbon-dioxide bubbles into the water, but a fish had swam down his throat and was choking him.

_Oh, _his thoughts were muffled by the water, _I'm dying. Thanks a lot, fish._

Floating in the water made him feel like a corpse. Suspended and distended. The fish had killed him, he was fairly sure. It had swam down into his throat, slimy and cold and dead, and then he couldn't breathe and now he was dead.

Floating belly-up. A fish in a fish tank. His corpse was bloated and green and the flesh was sloughing off of his bones into the ocean. He wanted to laugh, but the fish had flopped and struggled next to his vocal cords, mouth opening and closing over and over and over in silent protests, and he couldn't speak.

_I'm sorry, fish. Did they catch you too? Caught on a hook in the water?_

There were hooks down his throat, they pulled at his soft pink new-baby flesh. And there might be worms down his throat, bait and tackle. A wriggling mass of night crawlers black and oozing and tangled, lodged in his oesophagus. He tried to swallow them, to get them out of his throat, but the fish complained.

_Why is it so wet?_

He was underwater. He was floating. He was drowning. He was dead.

_Where am I?_

The ocean soothed him, slowly. The sound of waves. Not actual waves. Not the beach, or the open Pacific. The tinny recordings of the ocean you buy in tacky alternative healing shops to get to sleep. Sounds of nature. The roar of waves.

The worms writhed in discontent.

_It is dry here. Water isn't dry. _

The sea was damp. Even the bottom, where there was sand and there was ground, it was damp. There was carrion here, the dead emaciated bodies of pirate ships, black with centuries and no sunshine.

_What happened?_

He wanted to pull the fish out of his throat. Grab it by its little finned tale and just pull it out like a rabbit from a hat. But if he did, the scales would slough off, shiny and silver in his hand, and they would hurt. They were sharp.

_Who am I?_

Slowly, the water was drying up. It dripped off his face, out of his eyes. Without the ocean, things were less blurry. But he was thirsty.

Hospital. Not ocean. But there was still a fish in his throat.

"_Doctor?...Doctor! I think he's coming around!"_

Things were speeding up. Without the water to slow time, to make things drift, they quickened.

His heartbeat quickened.

"_Can you hear me? Son, can you hear me? I think his eyes are opening. He's waking up!"_

There were people around him. Merpeople. Doctors. Nurses. Sirens.

"_That's it son, come back to us. Open your eyes. You've had quite a long day."_

His eyes opened.

He gasped. Choked. He was in a hospital. A doctor with slick-backed hair and a pretty mermaid, _a pretty nurse,_ were hovering over him.

He wasn't swimming. He was lying on his back. But there was still a fish in his throat.

"Don't fight the breathing tube. That's right, just let it alone. I know you've got to be very tired right now. You've been a coma for the last 36 hours. It's alright, son. It's okay now. Calm down. It's-"

Slowly, he drifted back to the waters. His eyes slid shut, and he fell asleep.

* * *

4 hours, 41 minutes and 7 seconds later after waking up from his coma, he woke up. Again. But from a nap this time, and that was certainly a plus.

"Oh good, you're awake! Again. For real this time though, let's hope." The doctor with the slick hair was there, smiling, eyes twinkling. It was a little unnerving.

"I'm Dr. Peacock. I don't know if you remember from the last time you woke up, but you've been in a coma for a little over a day. You're at Caliente General Hospital."

Dr. Peacock stared at the clipboard in his hand, brow folding in on itself in little tiny ruts and furrows. He didn't know what he could possibly be concentrating so hard on. It wasn't like _he _had just woken up from a coma.

"Oh, leave that tube. It's there to help you breathe. It's been touch and go for awhile, now."

Yeah, he had figured that out from the coma.

"Actually, we should be able to take it out soon. Your stats are pretty good. I'm sure you'd like it removed?"

Of all the idiotic questions...but he nodded anyway, and his head spun. The procedure was neither quick nor painless. A nurse came in, pulled the breathing tube out like the Crocodile Hunter wrangling a venomous snake. His chest hurt, his throat hurt. He coughed a few times, and his throat hurt worse. The nurse left, taking the viper with her, and Dr. Peacock continued his litany.

"So, you came to us quite battered, young man. A broken rib, fractured clavicle, severe external bruising, minor internal bruising, and a concussion just to start off with. You're a lucky young man, though. It could be a lot worse. We think you were involved in a motor vehicle accident- a hit and run. Now, you seem to be healing nicely, though."

Healing nicely? What happened to touch and go? And wasn't he in a coma, like, four hours ago?

Dr. Peacock spoke very fast. The doctor descended into a speech on how quickly he was healing, and how nicely, and what things should look like in the next few days, and what the damn weather was like, he supposed, because he had stopped listening. Frankly, he had more important things on his mind.

Carefully, silently, he searched every corner of his brain. No answers. So the questions built up inside of him. He was surprised he didn't explode at Peacock right then and there, but he felt distant. Numb. Like someone had gone crazy with the Novacain on him- he knew he was hurting, but he couldn't feel a thing.

Finally, the doctor ended his soliloquy, He was looking at him expectantly. Oh, right. Well, he was asking for it.

"Who am I?"

Peacock's forehead furrowed into little canals again.

"I'm...sorry?"

His voice was hoarse. The snake, fish, whatever, had ripped it raw. He cleared his throat.

"Who am I?"

Peacock fidgeted, "I...I'm not sure...you don't know who you are?"

Yes, dipshit, hence the question! He was growing more agitated. His breath quickened. Oh god, forget the Novacain, he could feel just fine. And it burned.

"Who am I...Who- Who _am _I? Who the fuck am I?!"

Oh, god. Oh, no.

"Oh, dear. Calm down. Son, you need to calm down! Your heart rate is elevated. Just breathe."

"Who am I? How did I get here? What the _hell_ is going on?!"

Fuck! Fuck, fuck! Screw words, screw questions! Fuck questions. He was full-blow panicking now.

He didn't know who he was. It was the most disconcerting feeling, like drifting in the open sea. He was disconnected from everything, floating.

He began to thrash, fighting the IV lines in his hand, the wires and machines and the tangled fishing net of lack of answers.

Eventually, the nurse came to sedate him, sending him off below the surface of the water. His eyes drifted closed. Again.

Burial at sea.

* * *

_Later._

There were demons in the world.

And, apparently, only he knew about them.

His first thought was that he was crazy. Schizo, wacko, loco. Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. There were no such thing as monsters under the bed.

Right?

But apparently, there _was_ a boogeyman in the closet. He remembered its existence. And it was the only thing he remembered. Oh no, he couldn't remember a family, or a job, fame and fortune or a girlfriend. But he remembered friggin' Dracula and Casper. He remembered demons. _Monsters._

There were vampires and werewolves and ghosts and poltergeists. Banshees, harpies, sprites, spirits, faeries. Rawheads and wendigos and yetis. Witches and hellhounds.

They were there. Everywhere. Sulking in the shadows, killing things. Killing people and women and children and babies and men.

And he was the only one who was aware of the danger.

Crazy seemed like a strong possibility. Still, he hesitated to voice his concerns to Peacock or Sherry. He might be insane, but that didn't mean he wanted to be locked in a padded room. And Rex had the sneaking suspicion there weren't enough pills in the world to make this go away.

Really, the monsters weren't all he remembered. He knew how to kill them, too. He lay on his back in the hospital room, and found himself cataloguing escapes. Examining people for honesty. Reciting Latin.

And wasn't that a surprise. Post-Caliente Rex didn't know if he believed in God, but Pre-Caliente Rex knew boatloads of prayers and rituals and scripture. And he spoke Latin fluently. Huh.

He also knew that holy water could burn people possessed by demons. And that saying Christo to them didn't exactly make their day.

He knew to use silver bullets on werewolves, wooden stakes on vampires, and when in doubt, to chop its damn head off.

He was a predator. A hunter. A goddamn action movie hero. Rex flexed his fingers slowly. He knew how to load a gun properly. Shotgun, handgun, whatever. He could fight with knives, and his bare hands.

If he ever got out of this hospital bed.

He wasn't exactly sure _how_ he knew all this, but it was there. It was all he had.

He could slow his breathing and calm himself down, biofeedback and something that was almost meditation, to calm down on cold nights during long hunts, chill out before something big and fanged tore his head off. He was fit and strong and he knew exactly how far he could run and for how long before exhaustion would win. He knew how to ration things, how to research and study and scope out towns and hauntings. He knew what to pack for a hunt, how to use it. He knew how to drive a stick and scam his way into a hospital and he was fairly certain he knew how to play pool.

The information was a little overwhelming. On its own though, with no other memories to distract him, it was soothing. It brought a sort of cool confidence over him. He knew exactly what to do in any situation.

He could do this.


	4. Memories and Dreams

_Disclaimer: Can't think of anything clever, amusing, or insulting to say...so, just, it doesn't belong to me. Okay?_

_A/N: Reviews= Ecstasy. So, thank you all. In this chapter: here's to explaining some more things. Cheers. Next chapter the action should pick back up along with the present POV, as well as John and Dean. Should be up soon. Thanks again for the feedback. Please let me know if I'm remotely coherent in this story, as I'm not entirely sure what's in my head always makes sense when written down. Much obliged. Kisses. _

* * *

_Present._

Rex got out of the little Italian _ospedale_ with a nearly clean bill of health. The buzzing in his brain had faded, and his arm was healing nicely in its plaster-of-Paris cocoon, a proper sling around it.

He had no desire to stay in _Abbascia _or hell, _Italy_ for that matter, any longer. So he walked down the barren roads northward, thumb out.

After the week in Nevada, Rex had caught the first Greyhound to Kansas. Rexford- the town- had a population smaller than most high schools. Nobody recognized him. It was just a blip on the map, a one-stop layover for travelers with a bus station and a gas station. Restock, refuel, and get back on the road. He hung out for a day or so, before reverse claustrophobia started getting to him.

The emptiness of Kansas, the million-mile blue sky and miles of flat wheat fields and flat prairies, scared the shit out of him. It was everywhere and anywhere and endless, pressing down on him, and he could fly up and fly away and never be seen from again. The floating, unattached feeling was the same one he had gotten back in Caliente General, when he had first realized he was alone. He didn't like the thought that he could drift away and no one would miss him.

Rex had backed off pretty quickly, hitching a ride to all the nearest cities, in Kansas and Nebraska and Colorado. He had spent a month there, searching. He pestered the police nearly everyday, and got the same answers he had gotten in Caliente. No, no, no, and no.

That first month had been hard. On his own, homeless, jobless, and memory-less, living on the streets and hitching on the highways. He knew how to fight, and he was more than capable of taking care of himself, but he was barely eighteen- if that- and he was on his own. It had been...rough. He didn't like to think about it.

When a month went by, he realized there was no one coming to claim him. No one was looking for him. And no one wanted to find him. He had been sick at that thought.

Eventually, he needed to leave. He hated that corner of the world by then, the dirty and uninviting cities and the littered stretches of highway. He needed to get out. Get out of town, get out of dodge, flee the country. The idea had been spontaneous and irrefutable. He caught the first plane to London the next night, the cheapest ticket he could find on such short notice.

The next two years had been easier. Not less dangerous, hell, he shacked up with death every other week. But it had been almost... Fun? He was doing the only thing he knew how to do, and damn, he was doing it well. Rex craved a normal life, really, and he would've taken a family and security over hunting any day. But he used what he had. "Beggars would ride", and all that.

He toured the continent, hunting things. Ridding the world of evil. Language hadn't been that hard. He was already fluent in Latin, so that helped. A lot of the people spoke English anyway. But after staying in one place long enough, he started to pick things up pretty quickly.

Rex had been happy to discover that he was pretty smart. He wasn't a genius or anything, but he had an impressively steep learning curve. Languages and memorization came easy- pretty soon he was fluent in Italian and French. He knew enough German to get by, and a handful of Spanish. And he could make his way through a conversation in half a dozen other languages with the aid of gestures and a shit-eating smile.

He wasn't just book-smart, either. Coupled with all the training he remembered, he could Macgyver his way out of a lot of sticky situations. Rex could think on his feet, fast and furious and adrenaline-rushed.

He didn't take a lot with him. He had dozens of weapons that he ran threw on a regular basis. He had his pack, with everything he could possibly need, conservative and practical. Filled with essentials- a compass and flashlights and surplus army rations, a medkit, bedroll and painkillers. He had his laptop, that had miraculously managed to survive almost all of his trip about Europe. And he had his worn little journal, black, where he wrote down everything he knew.

He wasn't quite sure were the idea for the journal had come from. He had been staring at shop windows in London, and it has been sitting there, unassuming and manly enough to not be a diary. It had seemed handy at the time, a way to keep track of all the information in his head. Plus, he liked the idea of leaving a little piece of himself behind- the written word seemed more permanent than him in the transient world he lived in. And he found writing down his...adventures seemed the wrong word...escapades? Yeah, his _escapades..._ fairly therapeutic...Not that he needed therapy.

He also had his hooded jacket that had been a gift from a German leather worker, after Rex had freed his neighborhood from a psycho Nachzehrer. It was sleek and urban, and he loved it. The smell of the leather comforted him, for reasons he couldn't explain. Plus, it was great for hiding weapons. Along with the rest of his supplies, he had pockets filled with salt and matches at all times, and a flask of holy water. And he had the folded train ticket from Rexford, Kansas- the one tether to his past life that he couldn't let go of.

For awhile there, he had had his bike. Loud and fast, she had carted his sorry ass over most of Europe. He was sad to see her go. She had seen her fair share of hard times, sure, but she was damn sure still intimidating. He liked the noises the engine made, the testosterone rumble that shook his bones, the appreciative looks she and him got when he was riding. Now, though, the bike was road kill on an Italian street.

Oh well. It's not like he could take her on a plane.

He loved Europe. He really did. It had brought him healing from the ragged wounds Kansas and Caliente had left him with. Europe was adventure, life in the fast lane, the kamikaze danse macabre he had become accustomed to, when he had lived with nothing and no one.

Across Europe there had been women. Girls. He didn't know if he had been a Casanova in his past life, and he sure wasn't one now, but he had been told he was fairly good looking, and he could be charming and he was always polite. Girls made a tiny hot pit open up in his stomach, scarier than facing a ghoul or goblin, but they fell for his puppy dog eyes and lost expression. They liked him, because they knew he was broken- just a little. He was someone they could fix and nurse and feed off of his grief.

Eighteen, good-looking, horny and on his own, he slept his way through a good chunk of the female population. Rex was lonely, and so were they.

But now, recently, there was one girl. In particular. Blonde, gorgeous, smart, Rex thought he might be in love with her. Just a little. She was American, and had been in a study abroad program at her university to France. Leggy and classy and way out of his league, she liked him.

He had seen her taking photographs from a bridge atop the Seine. She was concentrating hard, blonde hair scattered in the wind, gray coat pulled tight around her. He had just come off bad from a long fight with a Rugaroo, exhausted and hungry. There was a patch of gauze taped to the side of his head, he hadn't shaved in a while, and his clothes were clean but threadbare. He sat slumped against the carved stone siding of the bridge, ignoring the slow traffic of people going by.

Rex had been hungry, but was too lazy to move from his spot, looking out over the slate-gray water. He had been waging a sluggish internal war on whether or not to abandon his post to go to the little cafe with free day-old scones he liked. Then she had shown up, pretty and working hard.

She was cursing under her breath, fumbling with the camera, and the words had been familiar- completely American. He had let them wash over him for a moment, savouring the apple pie/baseball game/life, liberty, and the pursuit of whatever-ness familiarity of it all. It wasn't like it was uncommon to hear English in Paris, but he liked to stay away from the tourist spots, and what he did hear usually had the lilting, blurred French accent tagging along. And this was a girl that obviously didn't use the metric system.

She could've been a tourist, but the age was all wrong. And she could've been a backpacker or other adventurer, _viva la vida loca _and all that, but she had looked too...bookish. Not that she had been mousy or anything, God no, more...coed. Her eyes had been sharp and they had had a ceaseless curiosity in them, as well as a charming sort of innocence.

"Fuck!" She had said, and wasn't that an American word? She blushed right after saying it though, like she wasn't used to it or expected some stern Catholic school nun to come whipping around the corner and whack her with a ruler.

He had commented then, and she had jumped in surprise. The conversation that had followed had been long and fluid and followed them off the bridge and into the small little cafe that he hadn't had the motivation to go to before. There, they ate their free scones and drank coffee with too many syllables. The conversation followed them the rest of the week, and, eventually, the rest of the semester. Motorcycle rides through the packed streets of Paris, nights in hotel rooms, and a mutual love of books and learning had lead to phone numbers being exchanged, promises being made, and Rex and Jessica Monroe had fallen in love. Just a little.

And now, it was high time he visited, so Rex was returning to the good old U.S. of A. He'd surprise Jess, and besides, he'd always wanted to see Stanford.

* * *

_14 hours later._

It was hot. The kind of heat that got under your clothes and hung onto your skin. It covered him, and Rex rolled over in bed in discomfort. He moved to fling the covers off the bed, but they were already gone. Surprised, he opened his eyes.

Flames. All around him, waxing hot and tall, eating up the vaguely familiar room. Orange and hostile and coming closer. But that wasn't what Rex was staring at.

His girlfriend was on the ceiling.

Jess hung there, pinned, her arms stretched out like a butterfly's wings. Her mouth was open slightly, pink lips parted. Her yellow hair hung down around her face, almost but not quite masking the open and empty and very, very dead eyes. Fish-eyes- Jess's sentience gone.

Her stomach was split open, red blood and something slick and shiny bulging at the edges of the flesh, coiled inside her like a snake but trying to get out. Blood dripped down, splattering Rex's naked torso, and he could feel its warmth even amid the heat of the room. It pooled off of him, staining the sheets. The love of his life was stapled to the ceiling.

He was burning then, and he thought the walls might me be collapsing from the fire.

Jess still hung above him, suspended by something he couldn't see and something he couldn't fight. She looked, arms out like that, like the silhouette of a bird against the mid-afternoon sky, frozen in flight.

But Jess was dead.

Rex screamed.

* * *

The scream died somewhere in the back of his throat before it could escape, leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He woke with a shudder, jostling the young brunette salesgirl next to him in the cramped airplane seats. She glanced at him, angry at first, but her expression turned to concern when she saw his wide open eyes and the sweat covering his face. Rex was panting, and he wasn't looking at the salesgirl. He was staring straight ahead, eyes still seeing his girlfriend burning and bleeding above him.

In his dream, Jess was dying. No...Jess was dead.

Every muscle in him was rigid, and he clenched the plastic arms of the airplane seat. Vaguely, he was aware of the salesgirl calling out to him, asking him if he was okay. Right then, he wasn't.

It took him a few seconds, but Rex calmed down. He shot the salesgirl a reassuring and unconvincing smile, and relaxed back into the plastic-y material of his seat with a rattling exhale.

He looked out the window, the deep blue of the Atlantic sparkling and eroding under him. Okay. It was okay. Or, it would be. In a few hours, he'd be landing in Utah. There, he'd start to make his way towards his girlfriend- his very alive, not at all on the ceiling, breathing, beautiful, girlfriend.

Jess was alive. He was okay. The world was wonder-fucking-ful.


	5. Camaros and Pancakes

_Disclaimer: No._

_Warnings: I feel like there should be something for this chapter and the next couple coming up, besides the usual profanity and such. Depictions of graphic violence, maybe? Oh, and mentions of some sensitive subjects. Just in passing in this one, but it might become a topic later on. Things are really only going to get darker. Nothing too bad, but fair warning._

_A/N: Thanks for the feedback, everyone. As promised, John and Dean and a slightly longer chapter. Yay. Oh, heads up: due to extenuating circumstances, next chapter won't be up for a week or two. At any rate, enjoy:_

* * *

Chapter 5: A '69 Camaro and the Two-Foot Pancake

* * *

Jacobi had owed him a helluva lot, but sitting in the soft leather seats of the '69 Camaro that was currently hauling him cross-country went a long way. Dark blue, louder than thunder and_ utterly sex on wheels_, the car had made him suck in a long deep breath between his clenched teeth when he first saw it. Inconspicuous? Not really. But hey, at least it wasn't red.

Now, cruising down a highway somewhere in northern Nevada, with nothing but desert on either side of him, he relaxed. The plane ride had been surprisingly easy (creepy dreams of dying girlfriends and burning apartments aside). A single ceramic knife hid in his cast- because no way he was going unarmed- and customs hadn't so much as given him a second glance. He had restocked once he hit dry land in the States. After food (God, burgers. You couldn't get 'em like that in Europe.), and weapons, Jacobi had been his first call.

There'd been an incident with a werewolf back in London, where he'd nearly gotten flattened by a double-decker bus after getting his ass handed to him by the angry wolf. Jethro Jacobi, whom he'd reluctantly paired with for the hunt, had made a stupid, amateur mistake that nearly got them both killed. Rex had saved both their lives, eventually, and Jacobi had sworn eternal gratitude.

Now, sunglasses on his face, driving 75 across the deserted Nevada sands, Rex thought it was totally worth it.

Sure, Europe was nice. Hell, he loved the whole continent. But even without any memories of the place, he'd always been an American at heart. There were nights when he couldn't sleep without blasting classic rock, and he'd kill for the heavy muscle cars that they just didn't make across the pond.

He'd been driving almost non-stop since he'd landed in Salt Lake City. Stopping at every other cheap diner along the way, he had spent a few nights stretched out in the front seat of the Camaro. Other than that, he just drove full-tilt west. Dead ahead.

Rex's stomach snarled loudly over the noise of the car's engine, signifying it was time to take a breather. A sign a few miles back had assured him there was an exit coming up, and after a little while he ended up in a tired little western town. Lovette, Nevada. Come to stay.

He would have called it a ghost town, but he wasn't willing to tempt fate. Besides, there were some signs of life scattered about- while a lot of the shops were boarded up, the bar seemed to be full, and he could see the lights of a diner at the other end of main street. Rex slowed to a crawl, and cruised through town, amused and wary of the looks the Camaro was getting. The navy paint glinted softly in the last vestiges of the setting sun. The sky was an aged blue on the horizon, giving way to an expanse of black and the first few stars of night above. Out here in the middle of nowhere, Rex was sure the sky would soon be full of thousands of them.

His wasn't the only nice car in Lovette, though. There was a pretty sweet black Chevy parked in the lot in front of a worn-out motel, and Rex turned his head to look as he drove by. He whistled low under his breath. At least somebody in this shitty little dead-town seemed to have an appreciation for nice rides.

He pulled into the diner- Georgia's, Home of the Two-foot Pancake- and parked, triple checking his car was locked. He slammed the door behind him (Or, you know, shut it very gently so as not to scratch the paint. But the effect was the same.), and took his shades off as the sun finally disappeared behind the jagged skyline. He'd gotten his hair cut, and it was more than a little messy from the last few days of living out of a car. Charcoal gray t-shirt, black canvas pants with extra pockets, and boots (everything dark enough to blend into the night while hunting, without making him look like a bank robber. Or a ninja.), he looked presentable enough, if a little rumpled.

A cowbell dinged as he pushed open Georgia's door, and there was a moment of silence as he walked in, as if everyone in the place had taken a breath at the same time. The diner's patrons looked him over, dismissed him, and went back to their conversations.

Sensing he'd passed inspection, a waitress materialized in front of him, menus clutched to her chest. Fake red hair, real boobs, she was a little trashy and a whole lotta pretty. But he wasn't on the market anymore, and besides, small-town girls weren't really his type. A little too clingy, and usually with a whole posse of local good ol' boys already enamored with them and itching to pick a fight.

...Okay, that was a lie. Not the clingy thing or the local boys thing (he knew _that_ was true from experience), but the having a 'type' thing. Rex was way too much of a romantic at heart, he knew, and cared a lot more about what a girl was like on the inside than about her cheap blue eye-shadow and come-and-get-me grin on the out. God, he was hopeless.

He smiled back at the waitress, and let her lead him to a corner booth in the back. Nice.

"Hi there, hun, I'm Nina, I'll be your server today. I know, right? Everybody gives me that look. Nina...it doesn't really fit with the red, does it? But my Daddy was half-Dominican, you know? Born and raised there. I get my looks from my Mama, though, everybody says so. So, can I start you off with anything to drink? Water, coffee? Oh, Merle makes the best iced tea, you should really try some. Or maybe you'd like something a bit stronger, huh? You just let me know, sugar, and it'll be coming right up."

She batted her eyelashes rapidly at him, and he took the moment to recuperate from the sudden avalanche of words.

"Um, right. I think I'll just have some coffee to start off with, thanks. Cream and sugar, lots of both." Not the manliest drink, but it'd keep his taste buds from committing suicide.

She grinned at him, showing off blindingly white teeth that were just a little crooked.

"Sure thing. Be right back with that. Oh! And I guess you'd want a menu, huh? Always forgetting to leave that."

She set it down in front of him, along with a fork and knife rolled up in a white paper napkin. Winking, she walked off, sashaying just a little. Rex resisted the urge to watch her go.

He flicked through the menu absently, already having half a mind for what he was going to order. Small town diners like this were all the same. Though he _was_ a little curious at how you made a pancake two feet long.

A little while passed, and he went through the motions. The food was pretty good- better than he expected, at least, and Nina talked him into ordering desert. Cherry pie with both whipped cream and ice cream, sweet and sugary enough to melt his teeth. It was good.

He considered taking out his ipod and relaxing, but he thought he might splurge for a motel tonight. It'd do good to sleep in an actual bed, nice as his car was. And if that was the case, he might as well get a feel for the town. So, eaves dropping it was.

After just a few minutes of listening to the conversations around him, though, Rex groaned. Crap. He couldn't go _anywhere._

"...Just torn apart. They say he was ripped open, gutted like a-"

"Bear attack, the officials are saying. Not likely, if you ask me-"

"-That's horrible. I mean, gosh, is nowhere safe anymo-"

"I think we got one of those- whaddaya call its- _serial killers._ Somebody preying on the-"

"-blood everywhere. Nate says he'll never be able to get those stains out."

"-amn freaky if you ask me-"

Dammit all. It was painfully obvious that something was going on in the quiet town of Lovette, and if Rex had to guess, he'd say it was something supernatural. He'd _swear_ that stuff just followed him.

So much for relaxing. It wasn't like he could just leave, hot blonde or no waiting for him at the coast. He'd have to do something about Lovette's little problem, first.

And he'd like to do it fast. Rex checked his watch. The night was totally dark, and he hadn't seen a library driving in. He needed to do a little research before rushing into anything. He'd pick up a paper, chat up some locals, and talk to Nina some more- he had a feeling she'd be more than willing to tell him _anything_ he wanted to know.

"Nina?" He asked, when she came to take his plate.

"Yeah hun?"

"So, what's there to do in Lovette?"

"Oh, sugar, there's plenty of stuff to do. It's a small town, but we know how to have fun." She fluttered her eyelashes again. "You'll have to check out The Coyote- that's the bar in town. It's always packed."

He nodded, "Oh yeah? The town seems like such a quiet place...anything exciting happening?"

Not his most subtle attempt at fishing for information, but he'd doubted he'd have to work too hard. Still, he saw something flicker in Nina's eyes, and she smiled nervously.

"Well, actually..." she dropped her voice, "There has been some pretty peculiar stuff goin' on lately."

"Really? Like what?" Peculiar stuff. Yeah, he'd kinda figured.

"Murder. No, I'm serious. And there's been a lot of it, too. So far, three...no, wait...four bodies have turned up in the last coupla months. Can you believe it? It's freaking me out, that's for sure. I'm afraid to walk home on my own now." She shivered.

"Really?...Who was killed?"

"Oh, well, it's been mostly tourists. First there was this guy, Eric-something, he was a backpacker who came down from the university, said he wanted to check out the animals around here, or something. I dunno, I never met him. Saw his picture in the Post, though- that's the local paper, The Lovette Post. It's small, but Mr. Fields does a real good job. Anyway, he was pretty cute. Eric, the backpacker. Not Mr. Fields. Glasses, you know? Kinda smart-looking. Real sad. He checked into the motel, went out into the desert one morning, and didn't come back. Three days later, the Sheriff and his boys found his body just outside of town. It was...bad. Really bad. Everybody was really scared then."

Fear. That's what had flickered in Nina's eyes. Fear. Rex recognized it.

"And then, it was this young couple, on their way back from their honeymoon. Or to their honeymoon. I forget. Anyway, they found them in- can you believe this?- their car. Yeah, both of 'em. At least they were together, you know? Like Romeo and Juliet. And here's the really weird part, all the doors were locked. A coupla fellas from the city came down after that, to investigate. You know, Law & Order type stuff. But they ended up leaving pretty quick. Sheriff says it was a cougar attack. Though how a cougar opened up the car, I dunno."

"Wow. Wait, you said there were four bodies? Who was the last?"

Nina gave him a searching look. She was fiddling with her pen as she told her story, tapping it against her notepad and talking quickly and quietly. Now she stopped, questioning him with her eyes. Before she could speak, Rex cut in.

"Sorry if this seems like a lot of questions...It's sort of my job. I'm a reporter. I'm on vacation now, but who knows, maybe this'll turn into a story..." He explained. Well, lied. "Michael Rexton, by the way. But everybody calls me Rex." He smiled at her.

"Oh! I didn't realize. Wow, a story about Lovette? That'd sure be something. Anyway sugar, where was I? I'll tell you whatever you like. My shift's almost over, anyway. The rest of the guys will be howling for their refills soon, but it'll do 'em good to wait."

Nina sat down on the bench across from him, tucking her notepad into the front pocket of her apron and planting the pen behind her ear.

"You were talking about the last body..." Rex prompted.

"Oh right! So, the last one... Yeah, it was a real tragedy. The others were just passing through, you know? Real sad, but they weren't nobody we knew. And everybody in town was nervous, sure, but I guess we never really thought we were in danger. Then Donnie went out, and well...He was the star QB in high school, you know? Coupla years behind me, but boy, if not for that...Everybody loved Donnie. Well, not everybody. He was s'posed to go off to college on a football scholarship, but something happened down-state and he came back home. Worked at his daddy's business, mostly. Good kid. Bit of trouble, but good. Anyway, Donnie and the boys went out to The Coyote for the night- and well, people mostly don't talk about this part, not really, but there was some pretty heavy drinkin' going on and when Donnie got in the car, well, just maybe the boys shoulda stopped him. You know? Anyway, Don drives outta town to go do donuts in the dunes- said the moonlight was perfect- and the boys were cheering him on as he left. You could hear 'em from over here, I was just closing up. Next morning, Mrs. Baker's driving out to visit her daughter in the city, and well, there's Donnie. Lyin' in the middle of the road. She said it was like he was sunbathing. And of course, at first she'd thought he'd just passed out, drunk and all. But she goes to wake him up, give him a right scolding for that, and then she notices it...his stomach...Well, it wasn't pretty, they say. Not pretty at all. Mrs. Baker's still a little shaken up, I think. Her husband passed last year, poor thing, and now this...Anyway, the whole town was pretty broken up over Donnie. Never thought it'd come home, you know? And they never did find his car."

Rex mulled the story over in his mind.

"And did the cops come back to investigate it? I mean, four deaths...In a town like this, that's got to get some notice."

"Yeah, they did. Federal Agents and everything, I think. But they couldn't find nothing. Donnie and the others...they said it was just like they was torn up by a- by a wild animal. Feds and everybody else went home after that. Though I hear there's a coupla private eyes in town right now, looking into it. Sheriff says everybody should stay inside after midnight, though, and not to go walking out in the desert on your own."

"Yeah. Probably a good idea." Rex glanced at his watch again, "Well, thanks Nina. I think my editor will definitely have something to say about this. And thanks for the pie, it was great."

He stood to go, pulling out his wallet as he did so and laying some cash on the table. A nice tip, too.

"You need anything else, sugar, and you just come right on back. I'll be at Georgia's first thing in the morning. Oh, and be sure to check out The Coyote- it's real fun out there. 'Specially if you like pool."

"Sure thing, Nina. And thanks again. You've been a real help."

Rex began to walk off, before pausing. Something occurred to him...

"Nina?" He called.

"Yeah, honey?"

"How do you make a two-foot pancake?"

* * *

"Lovette, Nevada."

"Never heard of it." John shot Dean a look. Yeah, okay, okay. Cut back on the snark. He was antsy, though.

"There's been a rash of mysterious deaths up there recently. Local cops are saying they're animal attacks, but it looks pretty suspicious."

"Our kind of suspicious?" Dean asked, shutting off the TV as he turned to look at his Dad. John was bent over a pile of newspapers that Dean had no idea where he'd gotten.

"The bodies have been ripped apart. Claw marks on them. Partially eaten. Does that qualify?" John stared hard at Dean.

Okay, Dean got the point. John was in a bad mood, one that had been growing worse the closer they got to the Nevada-California border. Dean would do good to shut his mouth and fly under the radar for the while. He had no desire to bring the wrath of John down on him for no good reason (or for any reason, for that matter).

"So, what? You thinking werewolf?"

John shook his head, "No, only one of the attacks was around the full moon. Seven weeks ago. Eric Masters, Nevada State student. Backpacking out here to study desert wildlife for his master thesis, apparently. No criminal record, no recent deaths in the family. Found in the desert just outside of town, disemboweled, his ribcage crushed."

A young African-American guy with crooked glasses and a lopsided smile stared up at Dean from the dull ink of the newspaper. John pulled out another clipping from beneath the pile on the table and handed it to him.

"A month ago. Patrick and Sofia Lowell, driving from Vegas across the state. Again, no record or recent deaths in the family, no suspicious activity before their deaths- apparently just the boy and girl next door. They were found in their locked Volvo, parked on the highway. Half of the woman's face was missing. The husband bled to death after his artery was severed when his arm was torn off by something big and bad. Both of them were eviscerated and covered in what looked like claw and bite marks. Cops didn't find the arm."

"Okay. Any others?" Dean scanned the obit quickly. His dad had obviously already done a ton of research for this hunt. Dean wondered when he slept, or if his dad slept at all, nowadays.

"Thirteen days ago. Gareth Donald Clint, the third. Local kid, 21, worked in the family business at Clint's Carpentry and Handywork. Short criminal record- a couple of speeding tickets, DUI, one vandalism charge that was dropped, and a sexual battery charge at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Also dropped. He came back home after he lost his football scholarship in the fall-out. Took his car out one night alone, drunk off his ass. Found with his stomach opened up and half his intestines baking on the blacktop by a local widow."

"And they really blamed all this on an animal attack?" Dean wondered aloud.

"Feds showed up to investigate after the fourth murder, but couldn't find any evidence of a human assailant. And the coroner swears that all the markings were made by some sort of animal." John answered, shuffling the papers together and reaching for his bag.

"Yeah, just not the kind you take the kids to see at the zoo. So what _do_ you think it is?"

"Judging from the way the body's were partially eaten, best guess right now is a wendigo."

Dean paused from searching the newspapers, "Wouldn't the bodies be more eaten up, in that case? I mean, this almost looks like they were killed more for...pleasure. And what has it been eating when it's not chowing down on tourists? The kills were spaced out over a couple of months."

"Yeah, well the time frame doesn't fit a werewolf, and there were no deaths to account for a vengeful spirit- besides, none of them knew each other. Even if the spirit was haunting the area, and not the people, the cannibalism and scratch marks don't fit. Poltergeist, witch, zombie, and harpy all off the table, for obvious reasons. I can't think of any other creature that eats its victims, or is smart enough to get into and out of a locked car."

He paused, thoughtful.

"We could be dealing with a demon, I suppose. A possessed human would certainly be capable of all this, but I just don't see what the gain would be. No, it's got to be a wendigo. There's a possibility it's been sick, or nomadic, to account for the gaps between the deaths. And it's a little out of its territory, but it's not unheard of to hear of them this far west. "

Dean nodded. He could accept that, he supposed. Still, something seemed a little off. "Okay, so how far are we from...Lovette?"

"It's about an hour west from here. If we leave now, we can make it by nightfall." John turned to his son, and his expression softened slightly. "Listen Dean, I know you want to see your brother. But the kid will still be there after we deal with this problem. Lives are in danger."

Dean nodded, and fidgeted slightly. He'd heard it all a hundred times before. And while that didn't make it any less true, it also didn't stop him from wanting to just up and quit and haul ass to his little brother, right then and there.

"You'll make it to Palo Alto before the week is out, okay? Now, quit worrying. I want you focused for this hunt, I can't afford to have you distracted with something this vicious out there. Sam's fine."


	6. Lovette and the ManEater

_Disclaimer: Not today._

_Warnings: Violence and gore, language, and later on some sexual situations and sensitive themes._

_A/N: I am so, so, so, so, soooooo sorry. It has been so long I don't even want to think about it since I updated this. Life sorta blind-sided me recently. Luckily, it seems the storm has passed and I should be able to focus on this story more. But anyway. Thanks to all of you who are still sticking around, I hope you enjoy this next installment of Ixnay. I was a little leery about this chapter (and especially leery about the next one, which should be up tomorrow), but figured something's better than nothing. Please tell me what I can do to fix them, or if they don't need to be fixed, or if they're just unsalvageable. Again, I have far too many apologies to fit in this author's note, just know that I'm sorry and I appreciate you all who are still reading. I really hope it won't happen again. Have fun and please review:_

_

* * *

  
_

_Then:_

Dean and John are heading west, with the vague intention of seeing Sam at Stanford, when they stop in Lovette, Nevada. Four people have been brutally killed, and they believe it to be the work of a wendigo. Rex-- Sam, minus all his lovely memories-- is also headed to Stanford, to see his girlfriend Jessica Moore (Whose name I continually and inexplicably spell as Jessica Monroe. Ignore that.). He too has been waylaid in Lovette, to hunt whatever it is that's terrorizing the small town. Sam/Rex lost all his memories two years ago in a presumed hit-and-run accident, except for those pertaining to hunting the supernatural. Since then he has been hunting non-stop, mostly in Europe. He recently got back to the states, with a sweet little blue Camaro and lots of fun toys that go boom. John and Dean are under the impression that he's all college boy, safe and sound, in Stanford. Things are about to get exciting. Questions?

* * *

_Now:_

Chapter Six: Lovette, Nevada and the Man-Eater

* * *

His Dad had left.

There'd been a lead on the demon. _The_ demon. Naturally. A pressing, promising, just-what-I've-been-waiting-for lead. One quick angry phone call later, and John had been packing his bags.

Dean had been…pissed. His dad and him were a team. And for John to up and run in the middle of a hunt? Not cool. Sure, John's argument had been reasonable. He had to leave before the trail went cold, but somebody needed to stay and deal with the wendigo that was wreaking havoc in Lovette. That somebody was, of course, Dean.

Yeah, yeah, it made sense. But still.

And just for an instant, when he watched his dad walk out that door, Dean had the forbidding sense that maybe his dad wasn't coming back. Dean just didn't know what he'd done wrong. He was damn good on hunts, and he followed his dad's orders just fine, yessir, no questions asked. But still John was leaving him.

Of course, that was a little crazy. It was just one hunt by himself, a few measly days of separation, wasn't like he hadn't done it a hundred times before. Since when did he get so needy?

Whatever. This wasn't time for a pity party. He'd ice the wendigo, then meet back up with his dad. Things would be a-okay in Camp Winchester once again. He'd be fine, his dad would be fine, and things would go back to the way they were. As soon as this hunt was over. It was just a wendigo. Easy as pie.

* * *

_That night…_

Well, it sure as hell wasn't a wendigo.

The tiger growled-- black gums peeled back over yellow fangs, warm, pink tongue rolling slightly between its jaws. It crouched, muscles sliding against each other smoothly beneath its orange-and-black fur. Glowing eyes tracked Dean, far more intelligent than the pussy had any right to be.

Dean's back heel slid out from beneath him as he spun around, following the tiger's moves. They circled each other slowly, both waiting for the other to make a move. Their eyes were locked, a staring contest neither was willing to break. The tiger's tail twitched.

Dean fingered the handgun he was holding, the metal a little slick with sweat. Mentally, he counted how many bullets he had left. Silver bullets, naturally, to deal with the Wendigo, but Dean was pretty sure they'd work just fine on tigers too.

"I t'ought I taw a putty-cat, asshole," Dean muttered under his breath.

The big cat roared again, a sound somewhere between a virgin being hacked to bits and an avalanche in a gravel quarry. It sent a primal chill straight to his heart, something dark and instinctive born a millennium ago_._ Dean ignored it. The tiger's paws were almost soundless in the sands as it paced around the young hunter.

Dean had gone camping, which had turned out exactly like the sort of boy scout family fun experience Dean had expected it to be. The idea had been to go out to the desert alone, making himself the perfect, vulnerable target for what he and his dad had _thought_ was a wendigo. Dean knew there was a reason he hated being bait. He had spent the night (the surprisingly _cold_ night-- really, this was supposed to be a _desert_. Didn't that mean sun and dehydration and shit?) shivering in almost total silence around his pitiful fire, firearms clenched in his numbing hands, waiting.

To Dean's credit, his plan had worked. A little too well. The cat-- which Dean was pretty certain was not exactly your average tiger, after all, how many of _those_ were tramping around the Nevada desert munching on tourists?-- had surprised him. Which both sucked and was a little impressive, seeing as how he _had_ been waiting for it to show, and a Dean Winchester ambush was not something to be dicked around with.

The damn kitty-cat pounced on him from behind, massive paws slamming into his broad shoulders. He ended up on the ground, skidding face-first across the sand just a few inches short of the hot cinders of their campfire. Dean had rolled over beneath the big cat, struggling to get out from beneath its heavy body. Its fanged jaws had snapped-- thick strings of saliva splattering onto the dry earth-- at his face, barely enough space to slide a sheet of paper between them. For a moment Dean had stared down the ridged scarlet gulley of the thing's throat, inhaling its coppery breath, darkness hounding the edges of his sightline. Somehow Dean had managed to get his gun angled up beneath the tiger's heaving body and fired. The blast had barely scraped the tiger's shoulder, but it let out a yowl and rolled off him.

Dean got his feet under him and fired again. Apparently the thing had escaped from the Matrix, though, because it dodged the bullet. And the next. And the next. And the one after that. Wanting to conserve his silver, Dean had snagged a shotgun off the ground from where he'd been sitting. He managed to pepper the cat with rock salt once, and now there was a smattering of pinholes across the side of its neck and face, dripping slow and wet and red.

The fight had been going on for maybe two minutes after that (though Dean was reluctant to take his eyes off his opponent and check his watch, for obvious reasons) leading to where Dean was now. Not a lot of time, really, but close to eternity when you're spending it pitched against the puddy-cat from hell.

The tiger roared a final time as it froze its pacing, golden eyes narrow and glowing in the dark, its pupils reflecting green in the firelight. Its face was maned in white, and it held itself like a king beneath the moonlight. If he'd been looking at the killing machine with a coupla iron bars between them, Dean might've even appreciated its raw beauty and fluid lethality. Dean aimed his silver-loaded handgun, zeroing in right between the fucktard's eyes. One bullet left. Easy as pie.

In the next instant, two things happened at once. Dean fired, the gunshot cracking and fading in the flat empty desert. The tiger lunged. It slammed against Dean, shoving him to the ground. The bullet bored itself into its furry neck, and wet dark blood showered across the young hunter's face.

There was a sudden, violent pain in Dean's shoulder, and he let out a smothered choke. The yellow fangs sank through Dean's skin, white-hot and ardent agony flooding through him. He clenched his teeth together tight to keep from biting his tongue.

The cat was on top of him, pinning him beneath, and Dean was out of bullets. The monster shook its head like a dog with a chew-toy and Dean arched his back and struggled with screaming.

_Oh fuck. Oh jesus. God_damn_ that hurt. _

He struggled, and the tiger snarled deep in its throat. Dean's hand inched across the sand, searching for his gun. Little particles of rock buried themselves beneath his fingernails. The tiger flexed its jaws, and this time Dean screamed aloud.

_There._ Cool metal brushed against his fingertips, and he stretched out his hand, ignoring the pulsing agony in his shoulder as the teeth shook in his flesh, and the hot crushing body of the cat above him.

He tightened his fingers around his gun, and lashed out, pistol-whipping the kitty across the face. The tiger released him, it's head snapping to the side and Dean kicked out at its soft underbelly, then scrambled away.

No bullets, but guns still come in handy. Dean was breathing hard and _ohchrist_ his shoulder burned. The big cat twisted its head back around to glare at him and got its paws back underneath it, struggling to its feet.

Dean got up shakily, hand clamped over his shoulder, blood oozing out from between his fingers. The unloaded handgun was gripped loosely in his free hand, dangling by his side. Dean panted, staring back at the tiger, who raked its gaze over his injured form and narrowed its sharp tawny eyes. Dean felt himself sway. _Okay, what now? _

The tiger took a step towards him, and Dean wasn't sure what he'd do when it attacked again. Instead of lunging to rip his throat out though, the cat paused. It lifted its head up to sniff the air, whiskers quivering. A weak breeze rushed uninhibited through the desert, and a few gray clouds parted, drawing back like curtains across the night sky to reveal the pale moon and virgin stars beneath. The tiger sat back on its haunches, and _swear to god,_ smirked.

What followed really shouldn't have surprised Dean. After all, he'd seen a lot of freaky shit in his life. But this…this was different.

The cat began to change. The dark russet fur shrank back, sucking back into its skin, starting at the paws and undulating upwards. The tiger reared back on its haunches-- which weren't really haunches anymore--forelegs clawing at the empty sky in front of it as it flailed. It's tail flicked and shrank as its spine coiled up and melted away. It threw its head back and roared again, the sound making the tiny rocks at Dean's feet jump. It's gums began to peel back from its teeth, and than peeled back further and further, rolling up over it's face, covering its nose and eyes and everything and leaving bare skin behind. In a matter of minutes, it wasn't a tiger anymore.

A man stood in front of Dean, his eyes glistening the colour of Mississippi mud in the dark of the night. His hair was long and black and tangled around his shoulders, his muscles rippled the same as the tiger's did beneath tanned skin. He was at least six-six, all muscle and brute strength and feral grin. There was a tiger skin hanging loosely from his shoulders down his back. The claws and tail were still on, and the striped fur rustled softly as the man moved. The bottom jaw of the tiger was gone, but its empty eye sockets stared out sightlessly from the flattened skin of its face.

Oh, and except for the fur cape the guy was completely naked. Apparently you don't get to change willy-nilly from dude to kitty-cat without losing your Levi's in the process.

Seriously, and Dean concentrated on staring at the guy's face and _not looking down_, there were some things he did _not_ need to see. This had to rank in the top five most trauma-inducing incidents of his life. And that included the time his Dad had opened the door of the Impala to find him and Heather Mariss knockin' boots-- though Heather hadn't been wearing much of anything, let alone boots-- in the back seat. And Dad had stepped back in shock to give Sam, who was trailing behind him, an eyeful and enough ammunition to commandeer the radio for a month. This topped that, because this was a naked dude, and it was a naked dude that was probably going to kill him.

Said naked guy lifted his lips in a shark-like smile, eyes staring at Dean with a look that was all hunger and excitement and completely fucking crazy.

Dean swallowed hard. He was light-headed and injured and out of bullets and options. He flexed the knuckles of his free hand. Dean was anything but bad in a fight, but this guy had five inches on him and about a hundred pounds, and he looked like he knew what do with them. Okay. At least he didn't have claws anymore. That was a plus.

Naked guy began stalking towards him, and Dean opened his mouth to say something witty and dashing and Bruce Willis, but all he could think of was _Jesus Christ, put some pants on, _and before he could come up with something better 250 pounds charged into him and he saw black.

The last thing he knew was hot pain and the distant sound of automatic fire raining onto the sand.


	7. Skin and Strangulation

_Disclaimer: Trust me, if you want them back in the same condition don't let me borrow them._

_Warnings: Violence and gore, language (I really don't swear this much in real life. I think.), and future sexual situations and sensitive themes. Heads up._

_A/N: Look, a reasonably timed update! Who would've thought! So, this is the chapter I'm worried about. It just…doesn't flow. And I don't like Rex's insult (you'll see) at all, but it just sorta happened. Tell me what you think, and let me know if the explanation for the baddie makes sense. Oh, and for the record, I love San Francisco. Thanks so much for all the reviews from the last chapter, guys. You're all very encouraging. Here you are:_

_

* * *

  
_

Chapter Seven: Skin and Strangulation

* * *

Okay, it wasn't a wendigo. Rex had thrown that out the window fairly quickly, and after a few hours of research he was fairly sure he knew what the monster that was terrorizing Lovette was.

He also knew that he wasn't the only one looking for it.

Two weirdo FBI guys who asked a lot of questions to the same people Rex was asking? Yeah, okay, maybe, but in his experience law enforcement didn't show up in tiny towns like this to investigate mysterious animal attacks. This wasn't the X-files. The kinds of people who _did_ show up-- those were hunters.

Or he was just paranoid. Whatever.

He'd chatted with the local doctor/veterinarian/coroner (it was a small town), who'd sworn up and down that the maulings were the work of a big cat. Yes, they didn't really look like the work of a local big cat-- a mountain lion would've been most likely, but it certainly didn't look like a mountain lion attack; and yes, it was a little odd that the people had just been _killed_ like that, but it was definitely a cat. Swear to God, Mr. Rexton. I know one when I've seen one. When Rex had pressed what _kind_ of cat, the coroner had grown hesitant. Apparently, he'd found a few brindled hairs on the body. And he'd interned at the San Francisco Zoo when he was a kid. And when he'd brought his conclusions to the attention of the Sheriff, he'd been laughed at for being crazy and for ever living in fuckin' Frisco.

Rex had quietly assured the cynical man that he'd believe him, and he did. A tiger in Nevada. Sure, it was pretty crazy, but it wasn't the craziest thing Rex had ever heard. And he even had a logical explanation for it.

…Relatively speaking, that is.

A quick on-line search had revealed that Kendi, a Siberian tiger from a zoo about fifty miles east of Lovette, had mysteriously gone missing from his habitat one night. Or rather, had been mysteriously stolen from his habitat one night. The police had no leads on that case, but they did have a prime suspect in the murder of one Emmett Herrera.

Emmett Herrera was found with Kendi's jawbone stuck in his throat and claw marks filleting his chest. The prime suspect was Frankie Whitefield, out on parole for aggravated assault and possession. Whitefield's mug shot looked mean and tough, an angry portrait of tangled hair and wild eyes.

Herrera and Whitefield had both been members of a Navajo reservation down in New Mexico, though Whitefield had been officially kicked off right before his stint in jail. The brief article in the on-line newspaper Rex had found said that witnesses saw Emmett and Frankie arguing about _something_ the night Emmett was killed.

Rex had a pretty good idea what that something was, and he had loaded up his silver bullets in anticipation.

Skin-walkers. Mother fuckers. There was a reason the practice was taboo in most Navajo communities. Rex had little doubt that Whitefield had been kicked out of the reservation was because he had been talking about trying it himself. That's probably why he and Herrera were arguing, too, and why he had killed Herrera.

The actual ritual was a closely guarded secret for obvious reasons, but Rex knew some of the basics. It involved wearing the skin of the chosen animal…hence Kendi's unfortunate demise.

Skin-walkers usually turned into animals a little more domestic, like wolves and cougars and crows, but Rex supposed anything was possible. He guessed Frankie had just wanted something exotic. Eenie meenie miney moe. Catch a tiger by the toe.

So, now some ex-con who could turn into a man-eating tiger was apparently running amok slaughtering people in Lovette. Joy. He was _so_ going down.

Rex had packed his supplies into the Camaro and headed into the desert. He knew that Skin-walkers could be taken care of the same way a lot of supernatural things could, silver bullet to the heart, but the problem was hitting one. They were notoriously hard to kill. The intelligence of a human combined with the strength and organic weapons of an animal-- it was a deadly combination. Skin-walkers could be even bigger and faster in their animal form than normal creatures were.

Whitefield wasn't the only thing Rex was wary of running into in the desert. The other hunters he had heard rumours of could cause some complications. While Rex had teamed up with others in the past, for the most part he worked alone. Hunters could be nasty people. It was a tough life and it bred anger and violence. Not to mention they were usually pretty territorial about others infringing on their hunts. If he had met up with the two men before, Rex would have tried to talk things out. Probably. You could never have too many hunters on the bastards' tails. However, they were gone before he could catch them, obviously off to try and dispatch Frankie to the big litter-box in the sky. Rex wasn't willing to leave it to them. Too much shit could go wrong on a hunt, he knew _that_ from experience, and he couldn't live with himself if he left now and found out that the two had somehow botched up their hunt and Whitefield had murdered more people, when he could've stopped it.

To top it off, Rex still had his arm to worry about. It was slowly healing from his whole vampire-and-ogre extravaganza, but it was still in a plaster cast. He had thought about 'borrowing' a hack-saw to take care of it but it was still a little early. He had left the sling behind, though. He wanted as much range-of-motion as he could get. Luckily for him he was ambidextrous with all of his weapons. Well, luck really didn't have a whole lot to do with it, more like excessive practice brought on by necessity. So, _bad luck _maybe, but not hearts, stars, and horseshoes.

The Camaro was eating up the desert as it sped into the night. Rex was humming along with the radio, completely in his element. _This _was what he knew. _This _was what he did. And he did a damn fine job. Frankie Whitefield wouldn't know what hit him.

An enormous Chevrolet Impala, late sixties model, hulked gleaming and dark off the side of the highway. Rex's headlights swept over it and he skidded to a stop behind it, reflexes quick. Nina had told him the two Feds had been driving some big, black classic car. Rex idly noted it was the same car he'd seen in town yesterday. This was most likely them, unless somebody else was crazy enough to go camping in the desert with a wild man-eating animal on the loose. He didn't know if they'd found the skin-walker yet, but he might as well try and track them down. Best case scenario they could form a loose alliance, or at least agree not to shoot each other in the dark. At the very least he could make sure that they weren't skin-walker meat.

Rex killed the engine and slung his pack over his shoulder, stepping out of the Camaro. His leather jacket was zipped to his neck, because damn it got cold in these deserts, the hood drawn up and the shadows covering his face. He had a lighter, matches, and salt to burn the body after he killed it (you could never be too careful, and the last thing he wanted to deal with was the ghost of a pissed-off ex-con who could turn into a man-eating tiger). He had a Beretta loaded with silver strapped to his waist and a Glock filled with the same in a shoulder holster. Three knives-- two of which were silver; an M16-- way too expensive to make silver fit it, but way too effective and _fun_ to leave behind; a flashlight; a small foldable shovel; camping supplies-- because he didn't know how far out in the desert the skin-walker was holing up; and a tiny first aid kit/ survival kit. Just in case. Oh, and a hand grenade he'd thrown in (figuratively speaking) with a shrug. You never know.

Jacobi had certainly come through. Rex was ready to kick ass.

His eyes quickly adjusted to the night, and he swept the ground. He was searching for the hunters' tracks. It'd be the easiest way to find them, and with any luck the skin-walker. Spotting the trail, he began to follow, silently moving through the desert, ears and eyes alert.

After a while, he came upon a camp. As well as one unconscious man and a huge guy walking around naked.

Rex froze on the outside of the camp and dropped to a crouch. He stayed just outside of the circle of light cast off by the dwindling campfire. Rex had no idea how good Frankie's eyesight or any other senses were in the dark, so he thought it best to stick to the shadows while he came up with a plan. He dropped his pack on the ground soundlessly. Once the fighting started, it'd only get in the way. Silently, he assessed the situation.

The unconscious guy-- Rex assumed he was the owner of the Chevy and one of the probable hunters he'd been looking for, though he didn't see his partner-- was in a pretty sticky situation. Knocked out, Whitefield was leaning over him, one hand wrapped in his shirt and half-lifting him off the ground. His neck was thrown back, throat long and lean and phosphorescing pale white in the starlight, the veins thick and blue beneath his skin.

If Rex wasn't mistaken, Frankie was about to tear his throat out.

Making his decision, Rex began to act. Quick as a flash Rex pulled the semi-auto rifle around and began firing into the ground, each shot creeping closer to Frankie and the unconscious guy. It wasn't about finesse, it was about getting the skin-walker's attention away from the hunter before he killed the guy. And at this angle, he couldn't just open fire with the M16 into Whitefield's chest without risking hitting the unconscious dude.

Sure enough, the sudden deafening hail of fire managed to alert Frankie's sensitive hearing. His neck snapped up and dark eyes fixed on Rex's frame. There was blood slowly oozing from a graze in his neck, and a dark mess of gore across his cheek and jaw, courtesy, Rex surmised, of a rock salt blast. Looked like Unconscious Dude had managed to get a few hits in.

Rex kept up the rain of semi-automatic fire. Okay, there went the element of surprise. It was time for a little one on one.

Frankie let go of Unconscious Dude's shirt, and he fell back to the ground with a dull thud and lay there unmoving. Rex hoped he really was just unconscious and wasn't dead.

The skin-walker snarled low in its throat. Rex had already traded the M16 for his Beretta and had it pointed dead-center on tiger-boy's chest, hoping to take out the skin-walker with one shot. He was drawn back in a shooting stance, a smirk playing across his lips. Shooting? Monsters? High chance of death? Freakin' awesome.

Frankie charged. Rex fired.

_Damn, but that thing could move _fast. Like lightning, Catman swerved in mid-step to avoid the bullet, and came barreling down on Rex. Rex dropped, rolling as best he could. He could feel the rush as Whitefield charged over him, his foot catching on Rex's chest. The skin-walker went down with a "humph."

Rex spun back around, gun aimed. Frankie rolled to a crouch and snarled. Rex fired again, and this time the bullet went home.

Or, Rex blinked, he thought it did. As Frankie hit him full-on with the subtlety of a crashing train though, he revised his assessment. His head slammed into the ground. Whitefield's weight bore down on his ribs and Rex gritted his jaw to keep from yelling out. The handgun went skidding away.

"I'm going to gut you like a fish," A low voice hissed in his ear. A hand slid up under his shirt and something-- _fingernails--_ scratched his stomach sharp enough to draw blood.

_How original, _Rex thought dazedly. _And eat my liver with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti, no doubt._

Frankie shifted his weight on Rex and reared up slightly. Before Rex could move a fist crashed into his face. Frankie went on hitting him, aiming lower and pummeling chest.

_Ow._ Okay, not cool. The salty taste of sweat and blood filled his mouth as Frankie punched him. His face was sticky and achy, already swelling. Pinned beneath Whitefield, his hands struggled to reach his knife.

"You're fuckin' dead, kid." Frankie continued in his growl, "Dead meat. You're a fuckin' idiot, a fuckin' moron, for thinking you could take me on. You're all morons."

More punches, and Rex gasped. He could feel himself bruising, imagined the blood welling up purple under his skin. His ribs flexed beneath the onslaught and threatened to break.

Frankie continued his irate monologue. "Shouldn't have fucked with me. You ain't never gonna come around here again."

Frankie stopped his assault to pant, and Rex choked out, "That's…not…what your mother said to me…last night."

What the hell, nobody ever said he was smart.

Frankie's eyes narrowed to slits. His nostrils flared. Rex kept his eyes open and his gaze even, what remained of a shit-eating grin stretched across his bruised face.

With a roar Frankie wrapped his fingers around Rex's throat and slammed him into the ground. He lifted and slammed again, Rex's head rocking with each hit. The fingers tightened around his throat, sinking into his flesh.

He couldn't breath. His vision began to tunnel, stars and darkness flaring on its borders like Catherine wheels in the night sky.

_No air…_

Rex's body flailed. He kicked out, catching Frankie in the shins who did nothing but snarl and throttle him harder. No air, and he was dying, he was suffocating, he was hurting, he was nothing…he couldn't breathe and a freakin' naked guy was going to kill him. In the black-and-white film in the corners of his vision the credits began to roll.

He couldn't breathe.

_So this is how it goes,_ Rex mused from somewhere beneath the pain.

And then, impossibly, Rex's fingers curled around the handle of his knife.

Rex jerked the knife up and felt it slice into the skin-walker's stomach. Frankie let go of him with a shriek, hands going to his abdomen where dark red blood welled up beneath them. He staggered and began to sink to his knees.

That was all Rex needed. Unable to get to his spare silver-loaded pistol out from beneath his zipped jacket-- _Idiot!--_he flipped the M16 from where it hung loosely off his back to a firing position and let off a stream off bullets. They cut across Frankie's face and torso. The bullets shredded him beyond recognition, his body jerking in the air. Then, as Rex stopped the onslaught, his knees hit the sand with a deadened thud and his back keeled over and followed.

Whitefield was a mess. Like he'd gone through a meat grinder. His body was filled with more holes than Swiss cheese. He was covered in red. And he was still twitching.

Rex tore open his jacket and yanked the Glock out of its holder and fired. This time, _this time, _the bullet hit. It gored into Whitefield's heart, and the skin-walker looked up at him with wide-open eyes that slowly glazed over with death. He stopped twitching. Frankie gazed up sightlessly into the night sky, resting on his tiger skin, hands holding his stomach, where the blood sluggishly stopped flowing.

Rex gasped and fell shakily back to the ground. His hands went to his throat.

_God…ouch._

Eyes closed and breathing slow, he took account of the state he was in. Monster dead-- that was good. Him breathing-- also good. Very good. Head aching, bruised ribs that chose at that moment to start screaming anew at him, his arm maybe re-broken, and his throat feeling like it was caught in a bear trap-- not so good. But he had _oxygen,_ and sweet Jesus that was good.

Rex began to cough, and as soon as he did he couldn't seem to stop. He curled on his side and clutched at his throat, the coughs shaking him and God, where did the oxygen go? Eventually, after a lifetime, they settled.

_Not so good…_

The wind howled low and unearthly and Rex flicked his hood back up. It had fallen off in the fight, and his ears were getting cold. He cautiously got to his feet, a little wobbly but his knees held. Rex stumbled over to Unconscious Dude, figuring he might as well see what the casualties were.

The guy seemed alright. Well, as alright as could be expected. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, a little older than Rex, with short brown hair and a faded leather jacket. There was an empty holster slung over his jeans and a Smith & Wesson in one hand. Half-congealed blood stained his shoulder and hid whatever injury was there.

Rex crouched next to the guy and shook his good shoulder gently. It'd be easier to tell what was wrong with him if he was awake, after all. Unconscious Dude moaned, and slowly began attempting to deserve the title Conscious Dude.

The hunter's eyes slowly blinked open, not quite focusing. His eyes squinted up at Rex in confusion.

Rex kept one hand loosely on his Glock. Almost-Conscious Dude still had his own gun held in his hand, and Rex knew from experience that just because he saved the guy's life didn't mean he still wouldn't try and shoot him.

Rex edged back a little to give Mostly-Conscious Dude some space and asked "Are you okay?"

Or, he tried to. What came out instead was a series of low squeaks and croaks. His voice was shot. Dammit. Rex winced and rubbed his throat, than stopped quickly when that _hurt._

He tried again, and managed a half-way decent, "Are you okay?" that sounded vaguely like Louis Armstrong.

Formerly-Unconscious Dude was staring at him now. Rex shifted a little uncomfortably. His eyes were wide and green looking at him in a way Rex didn't quite understand. Then again, he had been unconscious for a while. Maybe he was suffering some kind of complications from a head injury? At any rate, Conscious Dude was staring at Rex like he was a mirage he was afraid would disappear at any moment, a magic trick he just couldn't believe.

"Sammy?" Conscious Dude breathed.


	8. Once and After

_Disclaimer: Return to sender unopened._

_Warning: Violence and gore, language, clichés, sexual situations, sensitive themes._

_A/N: You know how I was whinging that the last chapter was hard? This one was impossible. Now, here's the moment you've all been waiting for. Though it, uh, might not be what you expected. Thanks for the reviews, they make my day. Extra-long chapter this time:  


* * *

  
_

Chapter Eight: Once Upon a Time and Happily Ever After

* * *

"Sammy?" Conscious Dude breathed.

Rex blinked, and fought the urge to look over his shoulder to see if somebody was standing behind him, knowing the only other person out there was Frankie's mangled corpse. Nope. Conscious Dude was definitely talking to him.

"Ah…No." Shit, this was probably bad. Apparently the hunter thought Rex was somebody he knew. Somebody named Sammy. Huh. That was a new one.

Conscious Dude was still staring at him incredulously. Nervously, Rex cleared his throat. Okay, time to deal with the crazy person…

"Sorry to disappoint." Rex offered. By now the noise coming from his mouth was a ragged cadence that rose and fell like squeaky pipes but never got louder than a whisper, and threatened to fade out completely. "Are you okay?"

"Sammy." Crazy Dude said again. "What…what the hell are you doing here?"

"Um. Listen, dude, I think you have me confused with somebody else… Name's Rex. Nice to meet you."

Crazy Dude drew himself up to sitting, fingers tensing around his gun as he did so. Instinctively Rex drew back a ways and lifted his own Glock a little. Alrighty, this could get really ugly really quick…

Crazy Dude glanced around-- and it was probably wrong, and a little hypocritical, of Rex to be calling him Crazy Dude, even mentally. The guy had a head injury. Who was he to judge?

Head-Injury Dude took in the skin-walker's bullet-ridden body and the otherwise empty desert in a quick glance. His pupils were wide from the dark and his probable concussion when they focused back on Rex. If that look was any indication, Rex was pretty sure the guy was trying to gaze into his soul. Rex wondered how that was going for him.

"Christo." Head-Injury Dude whispered. Rex didn't so much as flinch.

"You want me to pull out some silver?" He croaked. "Or just take my word for it?"

Head-Injury Dude just stared. Apparently he didn't have much of a sense of humour. Whatever. Hoping to set the guy at ease, Rex ejected a round from his gun. He held up the silver bullet between his thumb and forefinger, letting the hunter see it shine softly in the moonlight.

"Just don't shoot me, man. I'm one of the good guys. Well, as good as they get. Scout's honour."

"Cut the crap, Sam. What the fuck is going on?"

Rex sighed. Shame. He was looking forward to a bed. Or at least vinyl seats. But he had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

* * *

_What the fuck?_

That was his brother sitting there. Sam Winchester, college boy, in the middle of the fricking Nevada desert with a semi-automatic rifle hanging down his back and a pistol in his hand. There was the dead body of the man/tiger/thing lying blood-covered behind him, and Dean had a feeling that that had been Sam's doing. After all, there was no one else here.

What the fuck was his little brother doing here? And why the hell was he acting like he had no idea who Dean was? Or who _he_ was?

And it _was _his little brother, Dean was sure of that. He might not know much, but one thing he could always be certain of was Sam. He would recognize that kid anywhere. Even hooded and shadowed in the darkness, with world-weary eyes that looked at him without recognition. Even not looking anything like the little brother he remembered, he still knew the kid. Like _hell_ Dean had him confused with somebody else.

Okay, Dean was starting to freak a little. Why didn't Sam recognize him?

The kid wasn't possessed, obviously. And the silver negated quite a few other options. This was Dean's little brother. Why wasn't he at Stanford? What had happened to his Mayberry life? Why didn't he seem to know who he was? What kind of name was _Rex?_

Dean thought that maybe Sam was messing with him… but no, no way Sam could fake that look of un-recognition.

Dean was struggling to comprehend what was going on, his mind moving sluggishly through what he assumed was a concussion. What the fuck was happening here?

Sam was speaking again, his voice hoarse and ragged. Dean didn't know what that was about. Had Sam gotten hurt…yeah, and now Dean could see the bruises that had been hidden by the shadows and Sam's leather hood previously. Purple on his throat and his face swelling. Damn it all. Did Sam have a head injury to account for his weirdness?

"So," Sam was saying, "I'm, uh, gonna go take care of that body over there." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Naked Dead Guy. "And then I'll get my first aid kit and help you out, okay? Why don't you…just sit tight."

Sam was talking to him slowly, like Dean was the one acting crazy. He got up and moved towards a discarded army-surplus pack lying on the ground, keeping one eye warily on Dean.

Screw that. Dean stood up shakily and strode to his brother. He reached out and snagged Sam's arm roughly.

Woomph! Dean was flat on his ass and staring up at his little brother a second later, kinda wondering what just happened. The barrel of a Glock was pressed lightly into his forehead, one of his arms twisted up in Sam's grasp in an easy wrist lock.

Sam was looking down at him, eyes glinting beneath his hood, unimpressed.

"Listen dude, I really don't want to hurt you." Sam said calmly. "But don't do that again."

"Sam…" Dean began, swallowing hard. Okay, his brother was holding a gun on him. Way past freaking out now. What the heck was going on?

"No. I'm sorry, I'm not this Sam guy. Please just stay here for a minute and then I'll take you to a hospital, okay?" Sam sounded…exasperated? Impatient? No, Dean realized, he just sounded tired. Years and years of being tired, piled up on top of one another. When the hell did that happen?

The fluttering ball of panic in his stomach grew teeth and claws and sank them in. "Sam…It's me, Dean."

_Remember me?_

Sam was looking at him critically. He released Dean's arm and backed the handgun up a few inches, but kept it aimed and hovering in the air. He didn't say anything.

"Do you not recognize me?" Dean asked.

"You should really go to a hospital," Sam said, voice barely above a whisper.

"Sam--"

"I'm not Sam!" Sam snapped. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry. Really. But I'm not this Sam guy, alright? You're injured and you were unconscious for a while. Let me just burn this damn body and then I'll drive you to a hospital. You can get help."

Dean was panicking now. _Oh, God…_This was bad. This was very, very bad. Sam had amnesia, or fucking whatever. Dean didn't know for how long. He seemed pretty certain in his identity, so it must have been...a while. It must have been a while.

"I don't know what's going on." And that hurt to say. "But, I do know that you're Sam. Sam Winchester. And I'm Dean… Your brother."

Something shifted in Sam's eyes. The gun dropped a fraction of an inch.

"What--what don't you remember?" Dean asked softly.

Eye on the gun, Dean slowly drew himself up off the ground. Sam was watching his every move like a stray dog.

"I don't…" Sam began before trailing off. His eyes were frightened. It was hidden well, beneath a poker face of cold composure Sam had never had before, but Dean could see the fear lurking.

"You don't remember me. And I don't know why, or how, but I know this-- You are Samuel Winchester. Twenty years old, Kansas born, total geek, and you are related to the best big brother in the world-- who apparently has made one hell of a big fuckin' huge mistake. But I swear to God, Sammy, I'm going to make this better."

Sam's mouth opened and closed once. His eyes were panicked now, a matching set to Dean's own, he was sure.

"I don't…" Sam tried again, "I don't have a brother."

Somewhere deep inside of him, Dean's heart clenched.

"Sammy…" Dean reached out with one hand and Sam jerked back. Throughout it all, the Glock didn't waver.

"Jesus dude, I don't know who you are or what the fuck you want, but I'm not this Sam person. I'm not your brother. I…just leave me alone, alright? Sit down and shut up and wait a freakin' minute and I'll get you some help." Sam's voice was nearly gone.

Despite the words, Dean could see the hesitation in Sam's eyes. The doubt.

He needed to say something, to do something to convince Sam of who he was. But Dean had no idea what. He never expected this…never expected to run into Sam on a hunt, never expected Sam to not be fine, never expected him to have freakin' amnesia, or whatever this was. He didn't know what to do.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth. That's right, Dean-o, just chill. Calm down, kick-back, relax. Do as Frankie says. _

What the fuck was he going to do?

Wait... And now Dean felt like idiot.

"Sam," He said as calmly as he could, "I don't know what happened to you to make you forget me, but I have something to show you that you are my brother. It's just in my wallet, okay? Take it easy."

Dean slowly reached into his pocket, hoping Sam wouldn't shoot him. There would be something ironic about that, but Dean wasn't entirely sure what. He pulled out the peelling leather wallet and cracked it open. Inside, he had the proof he needed, or at least he hoped it was proof enough.

The Winchester family had never been big on the whole picture thing. Cameras were expensive and took up space, and photo-worthy family outings were few and far between. Wasn't like they had snapshots of their hunting trips, the kids standing proudly over their kills, Dad holding up the neck of a slaughtered werewolf or chupacabra like a macabre cover of _Field and Stream._ Nah, but Dean did have a few Polaroid memories he'd managed to salvage over the years.

The picture that he hoped was going to save his ass was kept folded in the back of his wallet. Sam would've had a heart-attack if he'd known Dean had kept it (after the watery eyes and hugging and general Sam-mushiness had ensued). It was him and Sam, about a year before his little brother had run off to college…or what was supposed to be college. Dean would have to find out about that. But first things first. The waitress Dean had been messing around with at the time had been playing with her camera, nothing serious, and had snapped a photo of the brothers. It had been Sam's seventeenth birthday. Wasn't like they had thrown a party, and Sam really hadn't been expecting anything except maybe disappointment. They were at the aforementioned waitress's diner, and Sam had a splayed-open book in his lap but he wasn't looking at it. He was grinning up at his older brother who was giving him his patented Dean Winchester Smile back. Dean had just dropped a brown-paper wrapped box on Sam's open book with a throwaway "Happy Birthday." Sam hadn't even opened it and his eyes were already shining up at his brother, so gooey and sappy they threatened to drown him. It was a mushy moment, but it _was_ Sam's birthday, so Dean had let it slide.

At any rate, the image of the two smiling brothers should help back Dean up. Carefully he unfolded the picture and held it out for Sam to take.

The kid cautiously grabbed it from Dean's hand, gun, of course, unmoving. He stared at the picture, and Dean saw him freeze.

The gun dropped.

* * *

The guy was crazy. Had to be. Dean Winchester, or whoever the hell he was, was just a few French fries short of a Happy Meal. He was _convinced_ that Rex was his brother. And that was…that was…

Crazy. Right?

Except, of course, for the fact that Rex had no memory of, you know, his childhood or family or anything like that. And he could have a brother. Theoretically.

So it was crazy. Completely insane. Except for the fact that it was possible.

Still though, what was this? Rex happens to stumble across a hunt that his long-lost brother is taking on? Actually, he supposed that wasn't that ridiculous, since it was obvious from his knowledge of hunting that he had learned it from somebody, and the hunting community was rather small. Rex could easily cross paths with whoever had taught him what he knew.

But Rex knew he couldn't have a brother. Because he had waited a week in Caliente, because he had waited a month and then some in Kansas and the surrounding Midwest. Because he, and even the police, hadn't been able to find anybody missing a maybe-eighteen-year-old kid with doe eyes and shaggy hair and memories of monsters. Because in two years none of his contacts had turned up anything. Because nobody had been looking for him. Because nobody had even noticed he was missing. Brothers would notice those kind of things, right?

Rex didn't have a brother.

But still, it was _possible…_

…Though it was far more likely that this Dean Winchester was just off his rocker. He had been out cold for a while. Rex was a testament to how fucked-up head injuries could leave you, wasn't he?

On the other hand…well, on the other hand was a creased photograph being held out for Rex to take. Rex slowly reached out and took it from Winchester, before looking down.

His world exploded.

There was a rushing in his ears, a storm that wracked the silence of the desert. Dimly Rex realized it was the noise of his pulse throbbing.

This was-- this was him. This was Rex. A little younger, hair a little longer, and he was smiling…but it was the face in the mirror he'd come to know over the last two years. This was him. And next to him, was the miraculous Dean Winchester.

Distantly, Rex realized he had lowered his handgun --_lowered his guard-- _and that he was frozen. He couldn't even think. He could hear the throbbing of his blood pulsing, surging over everything else. All he could hear was the rush.

_It could be a trick._

"…Sam," He looked up, and there was Winchester, staring at him.

_It could be a trap._

Rex couldn't say anything. Frankie had done a number on his throat. That was where the tightness in it came from, Rex was pretty sure.

_It could all be lies._

"Do you believe me now?" Dean asked.

_It couldn't be what you've been waiting for._

Rex's eyes flicked back to the photograph, studying it. It didn't look fake. And it sure looked like him.

_It couldn't be what you've dreamed of._

"It's been…God, it's been two years Sam. What the hell happened to you?"

_It couldn't be real._

Two years. And there it was. Funny how that was the amount of time Dean had been apart from his brother, and the same amount of time Rex had spent wandering alone.

_It could be…_

Rex's eyes met Dean's. He swallowed hard past the hurt in his throat, and his hands reflexively tightened on the old photo and the grip of his gun.

"You're my brother?" Rex asked slowly.

Dean nodded, eyes hopeful. "Yeah, Sammy, I am."

"…Where the fuck have you been?"

* * *

Sam believed him. He still didn't know what was going on, but at least Sam knew he was his brother.

…Though he looked kinda pissed about that.

"I…" Dean started. "You left."

"What?" Sam asked numbly.

Dean thought about what he should say. How could he explain what had happened to Sam? Truth was, even he didn't know what had gone wrong. All Dean knew was that he had fucked up, big time. He had failed at his number one job, the only job that really mattered. He had failed to protect Sam.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Dean asked cautiously, wanting to get an idea of where Sam stood.

Sam shook his head. "No. You tell me what happened."

O…kay. That was unexpected. Sam's eyes were steel. It didn't look like he wanted to play nice. Dean cleared his throat. Fine, he'd go first.

"Two years ago you left us…that's, uh, me and our dad, John Winchester?" Sam shook his head in the negative at Dean's questioning look. Dean continued, "You went to college. You got a full ride to Stanford, Sam. It was…"

It was pretty impressive, all things considered, but Dean couldn't quite say that.

"Dad didn't want you to quit hunting. You guys were fighting a lot. He gave you an ultimatum…school or us. And you walked out. We thought you were at school. We thought you were safe."

How fucking wrong they were.

"Stanford?" Sam questioned.

"Yeah."

Sam had an odd look on his face but didn't say anything.

"What happened to you, Sam?" Dean's voice was soft.

* * *

Rex didn't know if he believed Winchester. He wanted to, God he wanted to, but it just wasn't in his nature to blindly trust. Whatever, for now he'd play along. He needed to get a feel of the guy.

What happened to him? Fuck, that's what Rex wanted to know.

There was so much to think about. So apparently he'd become estranged from his family, and that was why nobody had missed him. Fine. Whatever. He'd deal with that later.

For the moment, Rex was going to let this whole life-changing event slide, squashing his emotions into a little ball and shoving them deep down where they couldn't get out. It wasn't that hard, already he felt strangely numb. Maybe he was going into shock.

He realized that Winchester was waiting for an answer. What happened to him? Rex's lips twitched into a wry smile. He hadn't a clue how to answer that. And he wasn't sure he wanted to get into his life story here and now, or ever. He wasn't used to sharing and caring. Besides, he still needed to burn Frankie and clean the both of them up. Time to move this party along. He holstered his Glock.

Rex cleared his throat. "Right. Okay. We're brothers. Good to know. We should probably discuss this all later. Somewhere that's not in the middle of the desert. And I still need to salt and burn that fucker."

Winchester looked surprised. What, was he expecting a hug or something? Some deep brotherly moment? Fuck that shit.

Rex turned to walk towards Whitefield, not bothering to look back to see if Winchester was following. After a moment, he heard footsteps behind him.

He dumped salt across the skin-walker's carcass, maybe a little more heavily and angrily than necessary, coating him in white. Gasoline followed. Winchester took a step forward, like he wanted to help, but there was nothing for him to do. Rex moved fast. He tore three matches out of an old match book with _Il Cane Bagnato _printed on the side, lit them and tossed them in one go on the body.

The flames spread across the corpse, burning yellow and hot. Rex took a step back and surveyed his handiwork. He didn't look in Winchester's direction once. Goddamn, he was tired. And this was…this was…oh, right, he wasn't thinking of what this was. That was a good strategy. He stared into the fire, willing it to burn away all his fear and hope and grief and anger and joy and confusion and life.

"Sammy?" Winchester asked hesitantly. Rex looked up.

"Let's get to civilization, shall we?" Rex asked.

Winchester nodded. It looked like he was happy to have something to do. Separately, the hunters gathered up their stuff and began walking back towards the highway.

"My car's just beyond that ridge." Winchester pointed out.

"I know. I parked behind it."

A beat, and then, "You have a car?"

Rex nodded yeah. Damn straight he had a car. They walked further, and the two muscle cars came into a view. Gleaming black and blue in the darkness, they crouched in a short line in all their testosterone glory. Winchester ran his eyes over the Camaro's lines.

"You have a _car_," He said in astonishment.

Fuck yeah.

Rex smirked. Since their little revelation, Winchester had been getting steadily quieter. At first Rex thought it was just the shock of finding his long-lost brother, but he was beginning to think the concussion was taking its toll. Guy wasn't exactly firing on all four cylinders.

"Yeah. So, how about I drive you back to town, and we can talk in the motel?" Rex suggested, not sure if the other hunter was in condition to drive.

Winchester blinked. "If we go in your car, we're leaving my car here. In the middle of nowhere. All alone."

"Uh, yeah." Sounded about right.

"I'm not leaving my car. There are thieves and vandals and…and…coyotes out here." Dean looked stubborn.

"Right. You have a concussion. You shouldn't drive." Rex really didn't want his new-found probable brother to get splattered across the tarmac the same day he met him.

"We're taking my car."

Rex blinked. He wasn't about to let concussion-boy drive him anywhere. An image of Frankie bashing _his_ head into the ground rose unbidden into his mind, and he swatted it away. He'd rather rely on his own addled head, thank you very much, than some guy he just met.

"You want me to drive your car?" And that would mean Rex leaving _his_ car behind.

Winchester blinked. "No. I can drive."

Not happening. Rex threw up his hands. "Fine. You know what? What say you drive your own car, and I'll drive mine, and we'll meet up in Lovette, okay?"

Rex loped over to the Camaro and opened the driver's side door, tossing his pack over the seat into the back. He ducked under the strap of the M16 and set it in the passenger seat. Swinging his legs in and sinking into the vinyl seats of the Camaro, Rex breathed a little easier. He moved to slam the door shut, and Winchester caught it with one hand. Rex glared.

_Don't touch my car, asshole._

Winchester eyed him carefully. "I think you should come with me, Sam."

Rex snorted. He raised an eyebrow when Winchester's expression didn't change and his hand didn't move.

"I'm driving my car. I'll meet you in Lovette, alright? You can follow me there." Rex gestured at the empty highway.

Winchester looked a little worried, like if he let Rex out of his sight he'd disappear again. "Straight to Lovette, alright?"

Maybe he hadn't meant it to sound like an order. Whatever.

Not like Rex was just gonna shag ass from this party so soon. No, he had things to figure out. He wasn't going to run.

Rex nodded once and revved the engine, motioning for Winchester to step back. Dean did. Good thing too, Rex was in a mood to run somebody over. Dean still looked like he wanted to protest, but as soon as he cleared Rex shut the door and slammed the gas pedal down, peeling out onto the highway. He stopped about twenty yards out and waited forWinchester to get into his Impala and catch up. Goddamn, he needed a cigarette. Rex dug in the glove compartment for a squished pack of Marlboros and lit one with his last match. He rolled down the window and the smoke fluttered out to lie invisible against the dark night sky.

Sure, he wouldn't run. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to go fast, either. As soon as the black Chevy was on the road Rex punched it, charging forward into the darkness. Winchester followed.

The speedometer climbed to sixty, then seventy, then eighty, and moved steadily onward, edging towards the triple-digits. _Don't think._ Not about the guy who said he was his brother, not about the family who didn't notice he was gone, not about his injuries, not about his life changing forever in a moment. It was a good plan, and one that racing along in a classic car would certainly help. He glanced into the mirror. Winchester was keeping up. Good.

His brother? Well, at least the guy had taste in cars.

* * *

_I know some of you will be displeased with that reunion. Keep in mind, both Dean and Sam were dealing with head injuries and other wounds, their respective shocks over the strange encounter, and a boatload of stunted emotional growth. There will be chick flick and brotherly bonding moments in the future, I promise. Things will get better for the boys' relationship. Thanks for reading, please review._


	9. Stiches and Time

_Disclaimer: Ix-nay on the aimer-clay… See what I did there?_

_Warnings: Violence, gore, clichés, language, and upcoming sexual situations and sensitive themes. _

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews! You guys are bloody fantastic. Sorry, risingsun, in the interest of getting to the point I couldn't quite fit it in. On another note, I'm trying out new summaries for this story. Any suggestions?_

_By the way, the "Cut the crap, Sam" line from last chapter came from blueeyesbetter, who mentioned it in a startlingly predictive review and who I subconsciously stole it from. I _knew_ it sounded familiar when I wrote it, but Google turned up nothing and for the life of me I couldn't place it until just now. So, thanks blueeyesbetter._

_Let the games begin:_

* * *

Chapter Nine: Stitches and Time

* * *

Rex pulled into the drive-way of Lovette's only motel. Chances were, Winchester had a room here. The Impala crawled in after him, parking right next to the '69 Camaro. Rex hesitated a moment, hands resting on the wheel. He'd managed to finish off what had remained of his pack of cigs on the drive over, and he wished he had something to do with his hands. Rex stared at the silently smoking ashtray for a moment before grabbing his stuff and getting out. He leaned against the hood of the car, eyes on the ground, listening to the thud of Winchester's door shutting and feeling his presence as he walked up to stand next to Rex.

Rex. Sam. Whatever.

Sam Winchester? If it was his name, it wasn't that bad of one, he supposed. Could be worse. Though Dean had kept calling him "Sammy." What was he, twelve? Come on.

Rex tilted his head up and looked at Dean, "Your place or mine?"

Dean's lips twitched. For the most part, his face had been a composed mask, something Rex could respect. But he had a feeling that this had been an emotional night for him. His eyes were tired, and his expression was tight. Maybe the guy was barely keeping it together. Huh. Rex knew how that felt.

"Mine." Winchester said, and Rex wasn't at all surprised. Something about Dean Winchester just screamed a need to be in control. He nodded his acquiescence and followed the older hunter to his crummy motel room. Double beds, one unmade and the other quarter-bouncing tight. Dean flicked on the light-switch and Rex shut the door behind them, automatically pulling out his bag of salt. He retraced the ragged line already in front of the door, liberally pouring the white crystals, before moving to the window and doing the same. Because wouldn't it be perfect if something fugly managed to interrupt their impending Hallmark moment?

The two hunters stood awkwardly for a moment, each staring at each other. Rex sat his pack on the floor, in easy reaching distance.

"So--" "You sh--" Dean and Rex began at the same time. Rex motioned with one hand for Winchester to continue.

"What happened, Sam?" He asked for the umpteenth time. Rex sighed.

"Before we start what I'm sure is going to be a ground-breaking heart-to-heart, you should get that shoulder checked out." Okay, maybe he didn't have to be a complete dick. What could he say? He was bitter. Besides, Dean wasn't exactly getting special treatment here. Rex wasn't a social butterfly, and when he did communicate it tended to be straight-to-the-point. _"Duck, you morons!" "Run!" _and _"It's a fucking werewolf!" _were his usual repertoire. He tended towards the sarcastic in casual conversation. Jess was really the only one who got him to open up. Speaking of, he really missed her…

Dean's eyes flashed a little at Rex's statement but he shrugged his jacket off. Reaching into a black duffel he pulled out a first aid kit. Rex hovered a little awkwardly, not sure if Dean wanted help. Or if he wanted_ to _help. Winchester seemed to have the situation under control though, as he opened the kit on the bed and began to rifle through it.

So Rex was a little surprised when instead of tending to his own shoulder wound, Dean turned to him and commanded him to "Sit."

Rex blinked. Ah, no. Not how it worked.

"I'm good."

Winchester shook his head. "You're hurt, Sam. Let me see."

Not so much. Rex tended his own injuries, thanks but no thanks. Who did this guy think he was?

"I've got it, thanks." Rex said politely. Unless Winchester pulled out a medical license right about now, dude wasn't getting anywhere near him. Hell, even if he did have a medical license, Rex wasn't going down without a fight.

"Sam," Winchester's voiced was strained.

"Dude, I'm fine. Nothing even broken." Which was true. Rex had assessed his injuries in the drive over, and had determined that while he was going to be colourfully bruised for the next few weeks and hurting like a bitch, his ribs and even his arm had managed to hold. "You, on the other hand, are about to start bleeding again. It bite you in the shoulder?"

Dean's eyes were hard, and he made no move to patch up his injuries. What, did this guy have no sense of self-preservation? That thing was gonna get infected if he didn't watch out.

"Sit down, Sam." He said again, and began to walk towards Rex.

Rex held up his hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Personal space, dude. I can take care of myself. Why don't you disinfect that puppy and let me see if it needs stitches? I'm a pretty good seamstress."

Dean looked a little hurt at that, the emotion flashing briefly through his eyes and disappearing without a trace. Honestly, Rex had no idea what he'd said wrong. He cleared his throat and looked away.

"Seriously man, that Scorpions shirt is toast, anyway. Why don't you, uh, take it off and we'll see what we're dealing with? You should be flattered, normally I make people buy me a drink before we go this far."

* * *

Dean hurt. Seriously. His shoulder throbbed steadily and something was trying to claw through his skull to get out of his head. Dean didn't blame it. But that wasn't important. He had seen the bruises on Sam, and he _needed_ to make sure his little brother was okay. Needed it more than ibuprofen or antibiotics or stitches. But Sam wasn't exactly being a willing participant here. He had shied away when Dean approached, and refused all offers of help. And Dean was used to dealing with a stubborn Sam, but this was foreign territory.

Now here he was, fucked up to all hell, standing in front of Dean and making nervous jokes. Normally Dean would appreciate the attempt at levity-- far prefer it over an attempt at emotional depth, that was for sure-- but Sam was being so un-Sam-like he was baffled.

Dean was good at taking care of Sam. Or, he had been. He did it frequently, unquestionably, for most of his life. It was like breathing. And now here they were, Sam not letting his big brother take care of him. Let alone the whole freaking amnesia thing, and Dean didn't even want to touch that. They needed to talk, yeah. But they needed to lick their wounds from the fight with kitty-boy first. And Sam wouldn't let Dean get within touching distance.

Dean was at a loss. He briefly considered pinning the kid down and patching him up, but he was fairly certain that wouldn't go over well. And…

Dean blinked. What had he been thinking? Oh, right, Sam…

And…and…He couldn't get his thoughts to focus. Damn concussion. Sam was staring at him and fidgeting.

"Fine." Dean breathed out. He gripped the hem of his t-shirt and moved to pull it off, stopping with a gritted gasp when that turned out to be a Bad Idea. Wordlessly, Sam held out a pair of scissors.

Dammit. He liked that shirt.

Dean sawed through his t-shirt, awkwardly peeling it away from his skin where the blood had glued it to him. He sucked in a deep breath from between his teeth and didn't say a word. Sam moved forward to help, and Dean warned him back with a glare. Like hell his little brother was going to help.

Oddly enough though, Sam stayed back. Weird. Dean was used to Sam bothering him when he was injured, a constant barrage of _"Are you okay?"_ and _"What can I do to help?"_ Somebody who couldn't be dissuaded from aiding his brother with just a look. _This_ Sam was quiet, though. Dean didn't like it.

"You're going to need stitches," Sam remarked casually after Dean had finished the tricky removal of his shirt and cleaned the wound. Dean's fingernails were digging into the bedspread. Peroxide hurt like hell.

"Suture kit's over there." Dean indicated with a tilt of his head. Sam moved towards it, and Dean noticed the way his footsteps were silent on the threadbare carpet. He moved with the same liquid grace and ready violence the tiger had had.

This time, instead of simply giving the kit to Dean, Sam sat down on the bed next to him. They were about a foot apart, far enough to not even feel Sam's body heat. Perfectly socially acceptable. Sam opened the kit and quickly extracted and threaded a needle with practiced ease. He leaned in towards Dean.

"What are y--Hey! Ow." Dean protested when Sam began to stitch him without ceremony. Sam smiled slightly, the expression falling off of his face in a second.

"Little warning next time." Dean grumbled.

Mechanically, Sam stitched. He didn't so much as look at Dean's face. Dean felt something grow cold inside of him, but he wasn't quite sure what it was.

Dean took the moment to study his little brother. Sam was different. Beneath the shiny leather of his jacket Dean could see the kid had filled out. Still lean and fit as always, Sam was even more muscular than when he had been under the Winchester exercise routine. Sam had pretty much finished growing by the time he was eighteen, already Jolly Green enough to piss Dean off, but Dean would swear now he'd gotten even taller. Even stranger, his hair-- always a bone of contention between Sam and John-- was only a little longer than Dean's. Short enough to never get in the way. The haircut heightened his high cheek bones and the deep purple shadows arcing under his eyes. His face was stripped of baby fat, all angles and grimly set mouth.

The bruises were dark and deep and swollen edging the side of Sam's face. Courtesy of that damn Cat-boy, no doubt. Sam's lip was split open, dried blood filling the fissure and spilling out to crust the top of his chin. Violet fingerprints were etched into his throat, thick horizontal lines that Dean snarled internally at. Somebody had strangled his brother. Bastard.

And peeking out beneath one of Sam's sleeves was a dirty white cast. What the hell happened there?

It pissed Dean off to no end. His brother had been hurt. And he hadn't been there to stop it. When he found out who'd done the damage, there'd be hell to pay.

Though he supposed Sam had already taken care of the tiger-freak by himself…

Even with the changes, Dean could still recognize Sam from a mile away. It was in the way he held himself, the littlest tilts of his head, and all the other body language that was so ingrained in Dean's mind he knew it could never be anybody else. But it struck Dean that if anyone other than him saw Sam, they'd never recognize him. His face was coolly emotionless, and he didn't smile. No dimples here, move along. And his eyes held the barest hint of danger beneath their neutrality, something that would make you want to break eye contact if you passed him on the street and do your best to not piss him off. He looked ex-military or something less regulated. Somebody who'd seen too many wars in his life.

Sam didn't meet Dean's eyes even under his scrutinizing stare. In fact, he showed no reaction at all. Except for the way his jaw clenched rhythmically, so softly nothing but Dean's searching look would have caught the movement, he betrayed no discomfort.

"All done," Sam whispered roughly. He stood up unsteadily and backed away before Dean could stop him.

Dean glanced at his shoulder. The stitches were tiny and even. The kinda thing that took lots of practice.

Sam moved to the medical kit and fished out a bottle of pain killers. He handed it to Dean, not quite looking at him. His breathing was even and his body was perfectly still, not so much as a twitch. Another thing that took a hell of a lot of practice.

Dean debated about taking the pills but in the end grabbed them and dry-swallowed. That shoulder did hurt, and the pain killers weren't the kind that would knock him out. They'd only help him...what was the word? Dammit, concussion. Oh, right-- _focus. _They'd only help him focus.

He needed to know what had happened to Sam. How he had lost his memory and where the fuck he'd been the last two years. But first maybe Dean better put a shirt on.

"You should ice that," He said as he rooted around his duffle, looking for something clean to wear. He pulled out a worn Iron Butterfly shirt and pulled it on, grimacing as his arm protested the movement. Apparently even fast-acting pills weren't _that_ fast-acting.

Sam's eyes flicked towards him, still standing perfectly motionless. He commented, "So should you."

Dean touched his head briefly. "I'll be fine."

Sam smiled with wry understanding.

"I saw a machine down the hall outside. I'll go get some." Sam moved to walk towards the door.

_No._

Dean leapt off the bed and strode towards Sam, who stepped back a second before Dean contacted him. Sam raised his eyebrows slowly at him.

"I'll get it." Dean said quickly.

"Oookay. Whatever." Sam acquiesced, holding his hands up in a classic 'don't startle the crazy person' move.

Dean kept his eyes on Sam as he opened the door and stepped over the salt line, watching Sam's blank face until the door shut behind him. It was still chilly out, but a thin edge of dawn had turned the sky bubble-gum pink in the far-off horizon. The bellies of the low, fluffy clouds clinging to it were burnished gold.

Dean breathed in deep. He hadn't wanted Sam to go get the ice. He hadn't wanted Sam to leave the fucking motel room. Preferably ever. Dean wondered if it was plausible to just lock the two of them inside of it until the apocalypse rained down on the earth, before conceding that he'd probably leave to keep his car from rusting eventually.

Dean was afraid. It wasn't something he wanted to admit. But if he let Sam out of his sight again, who knew what the hell would happen? If he let Sam walk out of the motel room to go get ice, who knew if he'd ever come back?

Okay, it sounded a little insane. Sure. But Dean didn't trust Sam not to run. And he definitely didn't trust the rest of the world not to take his brother away from him again.

* * *

Ice was probably a good idea. A sharp ache had unfolded itself just under Rex's skin, stretching over his face and chest. Reflexively, Rex bottled up the pain. He couldn't let it distract him. Ever.

He moved to his army pack. Now was as good of a time as ever to get cleaned up. He needed a shower. But that could wait. Grabbing what he needed, Rex went into the tiny motel bathroom. He unclasped his shoulder holster and set it on the closed lid of the toilet. He peeled off his shirt--

_Ohgodmotherfuckershitshitshit_

_--_stiffening a little as his ribs and head and arm and every other inch of him protested the movement. He folded the shirt neatly and lifted the holster to set it under. He tucked the Glock in the waistband of his jeans. The empty Beretta and its holster were added to the pile.

Rex looked in the mirror. Shit, his face was a mess. Ah, well. At least his eyes weren't swollen shut. He wet a washcloth with warm water and dabbed away the dried blood.

Winchester was weird.

Alright, that was a little harsh. The guy just got beaten to hell by a naked half-cat, half-man, all-crazy son of a bitch. And he, of course, had just found his long-lost little brother. Anybody would act strange in that situation, right? Whatever.

As Rex cleaned himself up, moving from water to antiseptic and antibiotic ointment, and throwing band-aids and bandages over the wounds that needed them, he ran over what he knew of Winchester. He approached his brother the same way he usually approached supernatural monsters, cataloging their strengths and weaknesses and plotting his plan of attack.

…Not that he was going to attack Dean or anything. It was a metaphor. _Sheesh._

But underneath the uneasy caution, Rex was bubbling over. This, he realized distantly, could be the moment that changed his life.

He'd gone two years-- _two years --_not knowing who he was. Where he came from. Anything. Two years of constant, aching wondering.

_Who am I?_

And this could be the moment that all of his questions could finally be answered.

It took all the strength Rex had to bottle up his excitement. To keep from demanding questions of Dean Winchester until he found out everything he wanted to know.

Because deep down, he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answers.

Rex heard the motel door open from somewhere behind him, and instinctively one hand went to his gun. He recognized the single set of footsteps, though. It was just Winchester. He relaxed minutely, studying the man in the bathroom mirror without turning around.

Winchester's mouth opened in surprise at the sight of Rex. "Holy shit!"

Rex spun around, but before he could question Dean about what was the matter, the older hunter interrupted, "What the hell happened to you?"

Rex looked down at himself. Oh, right.

The bruises from Italy had started to fade into greens and browns and yellows, jacketing his chest. On top of them, the dark violets and almost-blacks --courtesy of Frankie-- were starting to develop. They spread under his smooth skin, completely covering his torso. The white and pink lines of old and newly-healing scars criss-crossed over the mottled bruises to complete the gruesome mosaic. All in all, he was rather colourful.

Rex looked back up at Dean's shocked face. Well, what did he think happened to Rex? He fell down a flight of stairs? Repeatedly, over the span of two years? Come on, he was a hunter. Winchester should know that these kind of things happen. Why was he so surprised?

"I'm a very clumsy person," Rex answered the question dryly. Before Dean could respond he turned and grabbed the clean, plain black t-shirt he had gotten earlier and pulled it over his stippled skin, tucking the hem over his pistol.

Dean's eyes bored into him. Rex felt strangely guilty for the snark, but he shook it off. Dumb questions get dumb answers. Wordlessly, Rex grabbed a fresh washcloth and his used one and moved to take the overly-full ice bucket from Dean. He wrapped a handful of ice in each washcloth, handing the clean one to his brother who nodded his thanks. Dean sat down heavily on the bed.

"Sammy…" He muttered from beneath his make-shift icepack, "You have to tell me what the hell happened. Where have you been?"

Rex weighed the pros and cons of confiding in Dean. Strangely enough, he found that he wanted to tell his brother what had happened. Maybe not everything-- _definitely_ not everything-- but he wanted someone to know his story. Someone who was family. Or at least probably family. And when he saw the despair and hope hidden beneath Dean's expression, he felt oddly compelled to give Dean what he wanted. To help him. Help this strange guy who thought he'd lost and found his kid brother. Rex never was a hero, he knew that, but he could never stop trying to save people.

Rex sat down on the corner of the bed opposite of Dean. He cleared his throat, not quite sure where to begin. Then again, the beginning was probably a good place.

"Two years ago I woke up from a coma--" He heard Dean's breath catch beside him, "--in a Nevada hospital. Car accident, they said. I couldn't remember anything…anything about my past or my family or my life. The doctors said I had amnesia. They didn't…they had no fucking clue why. I couldn't remember anything, except how to fight fugly bastards like that skin-walker. I remembered how to hunt."

"Skin-walker?" Dean said in the pause that followed. Rex looked up at him.

"Yeah, skin-walker. Big ugly dude who could turn into a tiger? Ring any bells?"

"I didn't know what it was."

Rex was surprised at that. Dean continued, "We thought it was a wendigo. Obviously, it wasn't."

"…Right." Rex said, startled. What the hell? Ah, well. Rex knew even with the best research, surprises still happened on hunts.

Dean motioned for him to continue the story. Emotions were building up behind his eyes, and Rex couldn't quite identify what they were. Anger, mostly. Or at least, that's what it looked like. But Dean didn't say anything more.

"I knew how to hunt, but I couldn't remember who I was. My face was all over the news, the police did what they do best. After a week they had nothing-- no missing person reports, no claims, nothing. The people at the hospital had found a bus ticket from Rexford, Kansas in my pocket, so I went back there. Scoured that half of the country for a month. Nobody was looking for me. So I packed up and moved on."

Dean's eyes were haunted.

Rex continued, "I…life sucked." Not what he meant to say. Yeah, a lot of shit had gone down in the Midwest, a lot of things he'd rather not dwell on. The kind of things that lurked in his nightmares at night. He'd been just a kid doing his best to make it on his own, living on the streets. Doing whatever it took to survive, not even sure half the time if he _wanted_ to survive. He didn't talk about that time. Didn't even really think about that time. The things that had happened, the despair he'd felt when he'd realized that nobody was looking for him, that nobody lov-- Whatever. He'd moved on. "I'd been hunting, when I could. It was the only thing I knew how to do. But by that time I just wanted to get the hell out of dodge, so I got a fake passport and the cheapest, quickest plane ticket I could find. Figured there were monsters to hunt all over the world, why stay there?"

"Where did you go?" Dean asked. He sounded like he needed to know, but he wasn't quite sure he wanted to. Rex got that.

"The plane landed in London. The next two years I spent around Europe, hunting and… whatever."

"_Europe?" _Dean exclaimed incredulously.

"Yep." Rex affirmed.

"_Jesus_, Sammy," Dean gasped.

There was an awkward pause. Rex wasn't sure what to say next and Dean wasn't sure what to ask.

"So," Dean finally began, "That's what you've been doing? Hunting? This whole time?"

"Pretty much." Rex answered. So, that was that. That was his story. Rex felt weird. He'd never told anybody all that before. Hell, he never really expected to tell it to Winchester, at least not without confirming the other hunter's claim a bit more. But once Rex had started…well, there went the levees. And he wasn't quite sure why.

But now that Rex had told his side of things, he wanted to hear Dean's.

* * *

Morning came and passed, and Dean painted a picture for Rex of a beautiful young mother killed by monsters in the night, a mourning husband on a desperate mission, and two brothers facing the world. Flames and a classic car and things that go bump in the night. Eighteen years worth of life. Every question Rex-- _Sam --_ had, answered. Every question he dared to ask. Who he was and where he came from and where he was supposed to be going. His _life._

Well, it was a good story.

* * *

**__****Oh! Semi-important: After this chapter, Rex might start going by Sam. He'd refer to himself as "Sam" mentally, and all that jazz. That was the plan. But, I realize some of you are really into Rex. So, what do you think? I'm putting it to vote. Tell me if you want him to continue to be called "Rex" or to be called "Sam." It's up to you! Yay, democracy.**  


* * *


	10. ElfMages and Italian Mobsters

_Disclaimer: If they were mine I'd just give them funny names and lots of explosive devices. Oh, wait, I did that anyway. _

_Warnings: Violence, language, sex, sensitive themes._

_A/N: Ixnay has over one hundred reviews! Oh my god! You guys are so, so freaking awesome! Thank you so much! Over a hundred! This is so cool! _

_*happydance*_

_Ahem…We're introduced to some of Rex's contacts in this chapter. Thanks to Star Mage1 for the idea that Rex should call them. They won't ever feature prominently, but I needed them and they were fun._

_As for that vote…thanks to all who participated, you guys had excellent arguments on both sides. However, I think I lost a bet with Murphy…because it was a tie. About 9-9 with 3 split. I've decided to compromise. Sam will go by Rex for about two more chapters, and then switch to Sam. You'll see why.  
_

_Thanks again, guys. You are all so awesome. Here's to you:_

_

* * *

_

Chapter Ten: Elf-Mages and Italian Mobsters

* * *

Rex spent the morning listening to Dean recount his life, asking questions and getting answers. Some better than others. He hadn't really elaborated on his own story, edging around Dean's questions. It had been an easy fight to win, Dean eager to fill Rex in on all he'd forgotten and not willing to push his amnesiac brother.

He tried to tell himself he didn't really believe Dean, still wasn't quite sure, wouldn't have his heart broken into a billion atoms of dust if the whole thing turned out to be false. But as good of a liar he was, he couldn't even sell that last one to himself.

He wanted to believe in this life _so much_ it hurt. An ache that had nothing to do with his bruises. And if it all blew up in his face… well, Rex wasn't quite sure he could move on from that again. He didn't think he could go back to being a nobody.

How do you go back to nothing, once you've had _everything?_

Still, he didn't quite trust Dean. Even if the guy was his brother, that didn't mean Rex was just going to follow him blindly, right? 'Course not. They'd known each other for less than twenty-four hours (Discounting the eighteen years prior. If Rex couldn't remember them, then they didn't count. Right? Damn straight.).

An he wouldn't be surprised if Winchester turned out to be a farce. Nah, Rex was far too used to the shitty side of the world to be blind-sided by something like that. And he'd do his best to be prepared for that outcome. But still, it was hard to reconcile the cynical side of his mind with the song-and-dance going on in his heart. He wouldn't be surprised, but he'd be damn heart-broken.

Rex would be hanging around, though. He wanted to get to know Dean Winchester. Or re-know him. Whatever. And Rex needed to know more about his past.

And maybe…just maybe…it was possible he would start to remember things again. Everything.

That would be fantastic.

Though if there was one thing Rex knew, it was that life wasn't a fucking fairy tale.

Whatever.

It was midday when the brothers finally decided to sleep. Rex thought he could've gone another week without it, the way he was wired, but he easily fell into a light sleep, listening to Dean's deep breathing a half-dozen feet from him.

That day, Rex dreamed of Jess again. Splayed on the ceiling above him, bleeding onto his skin, flames ravaging the world.

He woke up without screaming, turned to the side and saw Dean sleeping on the neighboring bed.

It wasn't that weird sleeping in the same room as someone else. Rex had spent a lot of time in hostels in Europe out of economic necessity, and had bunked with hunters before. So when Dean had insisted he stay in that room instead of going out on his own, he'd acquiesced to avoid pointless confrontation. Pick your battles and all that shit. His brother had also insisted that Rex stay in Dean's messy bed farthest from the door, instead of simply sleeping in the crisply-made one previously occupied by their father.

_Their father…_

Rex had a dad. Rex had a _family_.

…God, he was so _Lifetime_ right now.

Dean's description of John had been…interesting. It was obvious he loved the guy, but there was a storm of emotions brewing just beneath the hero-worship. Dean hadn't been big on talking about that, though. From Dean's description, Rex had inferred that childhood had been a bit rough. No need to rehash that, right?

Dean had tried to call John that morning, to tell him about Rex, and had gotten nothing but voicemail. He had seemed a little perturbed at that but had brushed off Rex's questions. Nothing to worry about.

Rex searched the room for a clock before spotting the dim green numbers. It was late afternoon, edging into evening. The sunlight peeked out whitely around the edges of the heavy window curtain and in the crack under the door. Rex hadn't gotten much sleep, just a few hours. Whatever. He'd gone longer without it before.

Silently, so as not to wake Dean, Rex climbed out of bed. He needed coffee and cigarettes. What the hell, he'd go all healthy and bring back breakfast, too. If he could find it at this time of day.

Rex grabbed his shoes, jacket, and bag as he crept across the carpet, years of silently stalking creatures of the night finally paying off. The other hunter slept on obliviously.

The sun was bright and hot on his skin when he made it outside, and Rex cursed quietly as he dug around for his sunglasses. Whose idea was it to build a town in the middle of the fucking desert, anyway?

Rex pulled on his boots quickly and glanced at the Camaro, but everything in Lovette was in walking distance, anyway. Might as well save on gas. Sunglasses on, wallet in pocket, he threw his jacket and pack in the car. Rex figured he'd go back to Georgia's, fairly positive he could get Nina to convince the cook to make him and Dean a late-afternoon breakfast.

But first, he had a few phone calls to make.

Let's see…he should really get in touch with Lewis, let him know he was still alive, and then get Scottie and Luca to do a few favours for him…

He'd left Europe in a hurry, the same way he'd gotten there. Though, he'd been in less of a panic this time. Still, he hadn't really let any of his contacts-- other than Jethro Jacobi and Lewis-- know that he wasn't even in the continent anymore.

Rex never planned on getting to know anybody. After his disastrous month in the States, human companionship was the last thing on his mind. He lived by himself, surviving the best way he could. Looking out for number one. Yet somehow along the way he'd made contact with others like him, other hunters. He kept in touch sporadically, offering help whenever they needed it. It's not like they had slumber-parties and chick-flick fests, but it was nice to be able to talk to somebody who knew that there were reasons to be afraid of the dark.

After he landed in London two years ago, Rex had been living day by day. Eventually, he began to get control of himself. He wasn't going to be afraid of the world. The world should damn well be afraid of him. With a brand-spanking new "whatever" attitude in place, he squashed down his grief as best as he could and threw himself single-mindedly into hunting. That was how Lewis Kelly had first found him, sleeping in a bus-stop in southern Ireland with a trail of supernatural carnage behind him.

In his late-thirties, with a head of golden-brown hair and sharp blue eyes, Lewis was an experienced hunter. When reports of some crazy sonofabitch annihilating everything vaguely paranormal that crossed his path reached Lewis, he'd gone to see who was cleaning-up Ireland. Rex had naturally distrusted Lewis when he'd woken him from his peaceful sleep upon the bus-stop bench, but the man's professional demeanor and proficiency had eventually won him over. Lewis was a private man, and Rex didn't know much about him, but that suited him fine. Rex didn't talk about himself much either. Lewis was the one to introduce him to heavy fire-power, showing Rex everything from how to shoot an RPG to how to disarm a time bomb. Lewis had also introduced him to Jethro Jacobi, the man responsible for his Camaro.

Jacobi was a damn good hunter when he wasn't botching jobs up and nearly getting Rex killed. He worked in Europe and the Middle East, an ex-military man who'd been introduced to hunting after a ghoul had picked the wrong fight and attempted to eat him. The ghoul had ended up with its head splattered across a wall, and Jacobi had ended up with a new profession.

Rex and Lewey kept in touch, and he'd been the one Rex had told about his return trip to the US. He wanted to have someone to refer people to, in case he got a call about a hunter needed back in Europe. His number had gotten passed around by word-of-mouth over the last couple of years. Wasn't like he could take out an ad in the yellow-pages, but previous victims he'd saved spread the word, and his cell number. If somebody did call him about a problem now, he'd refer them to Lewis.

Besides Lewis and Jacobi, Rex had a few other people he was close to. Relatively speaking. Somewhere near Glasgow he'd been put in touch with Cameron Scott, a pale guy with shaggy black hair and permanent pessimism just a few years older than Rex. Scotland was full of monsters and Rex had had no idea what half of them where-- until he met Scottie. After his father was killed by a kelpie, Scottie had devoted himself to fighting the supernatural the best way he could. Seeing as how he was a scrawny geek who could hack into most any government server quicker than Rex could salt-and-burn a body, the best way turned out to be a little more technical than most hunters. Though almost permanently attached to his computers, Scottie was the go-to guy for most of the European hunting community, with a freakish knowledge of the otherworld and the internet at his fingertips. He was also responsible for all eight of Rex's fake ids, and their corresponding federal badges and passports.

Luca Giordano was the other man Rex really should call. While Scottie was excellent at what he did, Rex needed someone who actually had connections in the same country he was in. In came Luca. He'd been hunting in Greece when they first met, and had agreed to team-up to take down a lamia they'd both stumbled across. The hunt had been efficient and brilliant, and Rex and Luca had hunted together off-and-on since then. Luca was even taller than Rex, and had at least fifty pounds on him. A hugely muscled man with a shit-eating grin and slicked-back hair, Luca came from a long line of hunters. The Giordano's still lived in Sicily, though branches of their expansive family had migrated to America.

What family members didn't hunt were involved in the other side of the family business. The less-than-legal side of the family business. You know, the Mafia one. The Giordano's were an Italian Mafia family of ghostbusters.

…Yeah.

Apparently some three hundred years ago a Giordano had been asked by the Pope to dispose of a malevolent spirit haunting the Vatican. Since then, the Giordano family had continued the hunting tradition. The crime family had spread to the US, and kept feet on either side of the law in both countries. Rex was damn glad to have Luca on his side. Not to mention, his mother made a mean lasagna.

So, Rex called his contacts. His side of the conversations went something like this:

Rex leaned back on the hood of the Camaro and pulled out his cell, speed-dialing Lewis. The phone rang…and rang… and rang…

"Hello? Hello? Hey! Lewis, it's Rex... Yeah. Uh-huh... I'm alive. Aren't you glad?… Oh, you're too sweet. Stop it, I'm blushing... Uh-huh. Aw, Lewey, you know you love me… Right. Okay… A draugur? Sure… Aren't you getting a little old to wrestle something like that?… No, I'm not questioning your technique. I'm sure it worked. You're alive, aren't you? Uh-huh… Did you throw the ashes into the sea?… Right. Of course you did. Silly me… Yeah, I know I'm a smartass. Yeah, I know you can kill me in like ninety-four different ways that I wouldn't even see coming. Yeah. Back atcha…Yes... Suck it, Lewis… Uh-huh….You know, I didn't just call to hear about your latest victory, old man… Fuck you too… Lewis… Lewis! Hey! Thank you… I need a favour… I know I already owe you. But what about Poland? …Don't play that game with me, I know you remember Poland… Right. _That_ Poland… I knew you hadn't forgotten… Sure, we agreed not to talk about it, but that was before I realized what a dickhead you were… Yes, I did want a favour, thank you for reminding me… Dean and John Winchester. Heard of them? Oh, really? That's interesting… Hey, can you do a little research for me? You remember what the internet it, right?… Yeah, I'm gonna get Scottie on it… Yes, you can do it your way, sans modern technology. Go get 'em, gumshoe… Uh-huh… I know you're doing this as a favour for me. I really appreciate it. Seriously… I don't think that's even anatomically possible, Lewey… Okay, thanks Lewis… Yeah, I'm sure I'm alright. Thanks, mom… Yes. I will… Fuck you… Okay, have fun… Enjoy your warm beer. And thanks again… Bye, Lewis."

Well, that went well.

Rex punched in his next number. This time, it picked up before the first ring had even finished.

"Scottie, it's Rex. Sorry to interrupt… No… No… No, Scott, listen!… What the hell is an Elf-Mage?… World of what?… I don't know, Scott… I'm not in Europe… The States… the _United_ States… What other United States are there?… Yes. Sorry… Why? My girlfriend lives here… Yes, I do… Scottie, we both know you don't have a girlfriend… Uh-huh… How'd that thing with Angela go, anyway?… Wow, she makes them herself? That's a little…unusual… Is that even sanitary? Wait, there was a second date?… Scottie, I did promise that, I know… I'm not a miracle worker… Sorry… Yes, that was un-called for… Yes, I will keep my promise to get you laid… No, you're not hopeless… I told you I was sorry for that "Beam me up" joke, didn't I?… Right. Right. I understand… You have a very difficult job, I know… I couldn't do it. You're one of a kind, Scottie. Irreplaceable. Yep… Speaking of which, I need a favour… Yes… I need backgrounds on two hunters here in the States-- the _United_ States. Of America. Uh-huh… John and Dean Winchester…. A little more to go on? I know you're not a miracle worker, Scott, but you're damn close… Uh-huh. I _am_ shamelessly brown-nosing you. Is it working?… Dean Winchester's twenty-two, born in Lawrence, Kansas. Any records will be all over the map. John Winchester is his father. He was in the Marines. Married to a woman named Mary. They drive a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, with Sedgwick County, Kansas license plates numbered KAZ 2Y5… It's not _old_, Scottie, it's classic… Right. Is that good? Okay… Why? Oh, Dean says he's my brother… Yea-- Scott-- No-- Let me-- Alright. Yes. I am… I know. Okay…Yeah, this is a big deal. A huge deal… Fucking huge… Right… I will…Okay?… Scottie… Listen, I'm going to call Luca, he has family in America that could help… Yeah, I know you and Luca don't get along… I know that was an accident… Right. No, I don't think he's forgiven you. Can you blame him?… Right… _Pink_, Scottie. Luca doesn't do pink… Right… He was joking about the killing you thing… Well, he wasn't, you're right, but he won't… I'll talk to him, okay? Okay… It'll be fine. No, you won't be able to beat him in a fight… That's right… Scottie, you can't drain his bank account… Because it's wrong… Yes. Alright. I will… Thanks. Talk to you later… Have fun with your Elf-Mage."

Rex was beginning to think that all of his contacts were, well, batshit insane.

Oh well. One last call to make. At least he could count on Luca to be normal, right?

On second thought…

"Hey, Luca… _Salve. Come stai?… Buono, buono. Grazie_. Luca, I need a favour… _Si. Si. _I know. Oh… _Il Cane?_ Yeah, I know… Okay. I need some info on two hunters… Well, see, I'm in the US right now…Yes… Sorry… I know… I know… I shouldn't leave the continent without telling anybody. Right… I told Lewis… And Jethro… Oh, right, you say that to his face… Luca, I'm terrified of your mother… Say hi for me, by the way… Oh, lasagna? Nice… Right… I am sorry… Okay… So, about that favour?… Oh, we're not done ranting? Okay… No, don't put your mother on… No, really… Luca, please-- _Salve, Signora Giordano! Come stai?… Si… Si… Mi dispiace… Scusi… So … Bello… Grazie, Signora… Io… Scusi… Si… Arrivederci…_ Luca? Right. That was low, man. So low. Fuck you… Yes, my favour. Those two hunters… Names are John and Dean Winchester. I already gave Scottie the info… I know you don't like the little punk… It was an accident, Luca… Right… It was… Uh-huh… I know it was pink… He's really sorry… No, you can't kill him… Because I told him you wouldn't… Yeah, yeah, _I'm_ the soft one… Right… Okay… His accent isn't that hard to understand, you just need to listen… He's Scottish, Luca… Yes… I understand… Luca, do it for me? …The hangdog look doesn't work over the phone? Really? …I knew you'd see it my way… I'm sure you've met people more pathetic looking than me before. Up yours… Thank you, Luca. I owe you… Right… Your cousins Tony and Mickey? Really?… They live in Jersey, but know a guy that knows a guy?… His barber?… I don't want to know… No, I trust you, thanks… Okay… I am okay… A horse head in my bed? Isn't that a little cliché?… Oh, a Hippocampus head. Okay… I get the point… Say hi to your Mum for me… Uh-huh… Thanks. Talk you later. _Arrivederci."_

Rex sighed and pressed the phone to his forehead. Jesus Christ.

* * *

Dean woke up when he felt something missing.

He squinted in the darkness of the room, memories filtering in through his headache. Sam. Amnesia. Right.

The bed next to his was empty.

He was up like a jack-in-the-box, one hand going to the knife under his pillow. Shit. Shitshitshitshit. Where was Sam?

Dean scrambled out of bed and flicked on the lights, eyes burning at the sudden brightness. He searched the room, glancing under the bed, checking the bathroom, yanking back the shower curtain, pulling open the empty dresser drawers (Dean wasn't quite sure what he was expecting to find in that one. Sam was pretty tall. It would've been a tight fit.). No dice. Sam wasn't in the room.

Alright, he was overreacting. Sam probably went for a walk, or to get something to eat, or maybe to catch a movie. Right. Sure.

Dean hastily pulled on a pair of jeans, sliding his knife in the waistband, and stumbled out the door. The light outside was sudden and blinding, worse than the dull fluorescents, and he had to squint his eyes almost closed. Damn sunshine. Now, to find his wayward brother--

Oh. Wait.

There was Sam, a dozen feet away, half-sitting on the hood of the dark blue Camaro he'd been driving he night before. His head was bent down, and he was pressing a slim silver cell phone to his face with a look of amused exasperation. His eyes flicked up from behind a pair of dark sunglasses and zeroed in on Dean as he stepped outside.

Sam slid off the hood and tucked the cell phone in his pocket, walking towards Dean.

"Hey," He greeted.

"Ah…hey," Dean responded. He cleared his throat and tried to look like he hadn't frantically torn apart a motel room recently . Boy, he was sure doing a lot of unnecessary freaking-out lately.

There was an awkward pause before Sam shifted and offered up, "I was just going to get breakfast. Or dinner. Whatever. There's a diner a ways down the road. Do you want to…?"

"Yeah, sounds good," Dean answered hastily.

"Great."

"Okay."

Another awkward pause.

"Shall we?"

"Uh-huh."

"Great."

They walked to the diner in silence.

A bell tinged as Dean pushed the door open and held it for Sam to walk through. When they were both inside, Dean realized everyone in the packed diner had stopped talking and was staring at the two brothers. A dozen pairs of eyes focused on them, and Sam's bruise-covered face.

Dean glared. Gradually, everyone looked away and resumed their conversations like nothing had happened, giving a few surreptitious glances over their platefuls of greasy food.

A waitress with fire-engine red hair and an impressive set of knockers barreled towards them.

"Oh, Mr. Rexton!" She exclaimed, looking at Sam. Dean gave his brother a look. Mr. Rexton?

"Hi, Nina," Sam said casually.

"Are you alright? What happened? Are you hurt? I mean, it's obvious you're hurt. That was stupid. Are you okay?" The waitress gaped.

"Oh, it's nothing. Don't worry. I had a little accident, misjudged the stairs. You know." Sam lied easily. He grinned blindingly at the woman, and continued. "I'm an awful klutz sometimes."

"Oh. Are you sure you're alright? Those look bad. Really bad. My cousin got bruised like that once. It was nasty. Not that you're nasty. Not at all. It's a nice tough-guy look. JCVD, you know. Or sort of Brad Pitt in _Fight Club_. Not that I think you're doing something illegal. Or taking over the world. It's just those look bad. Not bad-bad. Are you sure you're okay?" Nina looked unconvinced.

"Perfectly fine. That'll teach me to take on things bigger than me. Like stairs." He smiled again. "How about a table, Nina?"

"Oh, right! For two? Of course. This way. If you're sure you're okay." Nina blushed under his look, then lead the two to a far table. As she walked, she glanced over her shoulder at Dean. "You're one of those detective guys, aren't you? Everyone was talking about you guys. You're investigating those animal attacks. FBI or PI's or something."

"Yes, ma'am." Dean answered with a smile of his own. He stared into Nina's eyes. "I'm Dean."

Winchester charm wasn't enough to keep her from glancing with confusion from Sam to Dean. It was obvious that she wondered what the two strangers were doing together.

"Dean here was kind enough to give me an interview for the paper." Sam explained before she could ask, flipping open the menu Nina had laid on the table and scanning its contents with one eye.

"Oh, your article! How's that going? Good? Alright, Mr. Rexton, Mr.… Dean. Do you guys need a minute? Well, sure you do. I'll give you a minute. And I'll bring two glasses of cold iced tea, alright? The best in the state, you know. On the house. Do you want anything else to drink? We have a lot. It's all good. I'll just give you some time, okay? Don't want to rush you. Do you want some ice for your face? I'll bring you some ice. Okay? Anything else?"

Dean stared. How the hell could someone talk so much in such a short space of time? When did she breathe?

"Um, coffee, thank you. Black." Dean requested.

"Right, one coffee, coming right up." Nina scribbled something that looked a lot longer than "coffee" on her notepad.

"Make that two," Sam added.

"Okay, two coffees. I just put a fresh pot on, you guys are in luck. You'll take it the same as before, Mr. Rexton?"

Rex nodded, and Nina disappeared in a flurry of short skirt and shorter apron. Dean watched her walk away appreciatively.

He turned back to the table when the talkative waitress was out of sight. "Bit of an over-sharer, huh?"

Sam gave a small smile of agreement but didn't say anything. Dean fidgeted.

"You know, if she overhears our conversation she's going to know this isn't an interview." He pointed out.

"Or she'll just think I'm a really, really bad reporter." Sam said casually. He shut the menu with a snap and set it on the edge of the table.

Nina returned shortly and took their orders, carrying a tray with two glasses of tea and two steaming mugs of coffee one-handed with practiced ease. Another one-sided conversation later, she was gone and Sam and Dean were alone.

What followed was probably the most awkward small-talk Dean had ever engaged in.

Sam was uncomfortable. He was uncomfortable. They stayed away from the big issues, and Dean found he had no idea what to talk about. His brother didn't say much at all. The conversation was stilted and strained, Dean searching to find a rhythm that just wasn't there. The easy relationship he'd had with his brother-- the one he'd had for eighteen years -- was disjointed. Finally, the food arrived, and the Winchester brothers had an excuse to be quiet.

Sam polished off his sandwich and side-salad like he wasn't sure when he'd see food again, and the reprieve brought from eating was gone far too quickly. Once more, the brothers sat in awkward silence.

"So, I was thinking maybe we could head out of town soon. Maybe go east or something," Dean finally said. There wasn't any point in staying in Lovette. And he wanted to meet up with his Dad. He'd called John more times than he liked to think about, and each time he'd gotten only voicemail. It wasn't quite time to start panicking, but his dad was going to have some weird messages to listen to.

Sam looked up at him at that. "Actually," He said slowly. "I sort of already have plans. I'm going to California."

"What?" Dean asked stupidly. It hadn't occurred to him that Sam might have his own agenda.

"Yeah. My girlfriend goes to Stanford--" Dean jerked at that with surprise "-- I was planning on visiting her. That's why I'm here. In the States."

"You have a girlfriend?" That was… surprising? Impossible? Crazy?

Sam? Girlfriend?

"Yeah. I… you can come, too, of course." Sam's eyes bored into his, and for the first time Dean saw hints of the puppy-dog eyed expression he was used to getting from Sam. Sam wanted something from Dean. Sam wanted _Dean_. "I mean… will you come?"

Dean didn't say anything, still a little shocked from the news that his little brother had a girlfriend.

A girlfriend at _Stanford._ That was all kinds of weird, but then again, it figured Sam would date someone as smart as His Royal Geekiness was.

"I mean… you don't have to, or anything. I understand if you have plans of your own. I just… I thought… I don't want to…" Sam was stumbling over words, losing his composure for the first time Dean had seen.

"Sam, Sam, easy… Of course I'll come. Duh. It's just, I'm surprised is all." No way in hell was he being separated from his brother. Sam leaving the motel room was enough to put him in a frenzy, Dean didn't want to think about what being on a different side of the continent would do to him.

"Oh, that's… that's good." Sam said, clearly relieved. "Thanks."

Dean shrugged.

"So, you have a girlfriend?" He checked, just to be sure. It was possible he had misheard. Sam nodded. Okay then. Girlfriend. Wow. That would take some getting used to. Dean would have to see it with his own eyes, that was for sure. It was a good thing they were going to Stanford.

"Well then, little brother, tell me about this girl of yours."

For the first time, Sam grinned at him, dimples flashing. The conversation got a little bit easier after that.

* * *

_Italian courtesy of Google Translate, and goes as follows:_

_Salve -- _Hi

_Come stai? --_ How are you?

_Buono _-- Good

_Grazie -- _Thank you

_Si -- _Yes. (And my computer flipped at any attempts to put an accent on the 'I')

_Il Cane -- _The Dog. If you remember, Rex had a matchbook with _"Il Cane Bagnato" _(The Wet Dog) on it. It's a bar. Or he's just talking about a dog now. It's possible.

_Signora Giordano-- _Mrs. Giordano (Luca's mom)

_Mi dispiace -- _I'm sorry

_Scusi --_ Forgive me

_So _-- I know

_Bello --_ Good

_Io -- _I will

_Arrivederci _-- Goodbye

* * *


	11. Smoke and BurnOut

_Disclaimer: Don't try this at home._

_Warnings: The usual. _

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! I've been anticipating this chapter for a long time, I'm so excited about finally writing and posting it…_

_Oh, by the way-- last chapter I said Dean was twenty-two, when in reality, he's twenty-four. Almost twenty-five. Anyways.  
_

_Here we go:  
_

_

* * *

_

_Chapter Eleven: Smoke and Burn-Out_

_

* * *

_

Rex wasn't used to talking to people.

…Not that he was used to talking to things _other_ than people, he just wasn't really used to talking at all. At least not about deep things. Jess was the only person on the planet he ever even considered talking about shit like his "feelings" with. Scottie, Lewis, and his other contacts only knew about his personal life from broken details that slipped into conversation. Jess was the only one who knew the full story. Or at least, most of the full story. Rex wasn't big on sharing. And now, talking to Dean-- well, it was insanely awkward, that's what it was.

Even small-talk was hard. How often did Rex talk about sports teams or the weather? Never, that's how often. Unless he was conning some civilian for information while on a hunt, Rex didn't _chat_. And he spent days by himself, in the middle of the wilderness, tracking various disturbing creatures. He didn't strike up conversations with the local wildlife. He was never _that_ desperate for company.

Even if Rex was as talkative as _Nina_, the Lovette waitress, conversations with Dean would still be hard. He was he was most likely the guy's amnesia-stricken brother that had been AWOL for two years. What the hell do people like that talk about?

Even though Rex was 75% certain he was Sam Winchester, and was willing to play along for a while if he wasn't, he and Dean's relationship was stagnant. It was an awkward situation where they knew they _should_ be friends, but weren't quite sure how to get there. Two years of separation and pent-up emotions stretched impassably between them.

Never mind the fit the guy had thrown about Rex's car.

After breakfast/dinner at Georgia's, the two had spent one more night in Lovette's motel before leaving the next morning. Rex had, naturally, gotten into his Camaro to head out. Dean hadn't been a big fan of that plan. Dean might've appreciated the '69 Camaro, and he definitely was impressed when he'd caught sight of Rex's neatly organized trunk, filled with every kind of weapon under the sun set in neat, custom-made foam panels. But that didn't mean he wanted his baby brother to be driving the thing. However, Rex had made it quite clear that there was no way in _hell_ he was leaving his car behind. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. The Camaro was _his._

The two probably-brothers stood between their respective classic cars, glaring up a storm but not willing to damage their delicate newborn relationship with an actual fight. Dean had seethed, Rex had smirked, and both brothers had gotten into their own muscle cars and driven out.

The reflection of the hulking Chevy Impala had stayed in his rear-view mirror all the way from Lovette. Rex had been a bit surprised Dean hadn't insisted on leading the way, but he supposed it was harder to keep an eye on someone from in front of them.

They were almost to the Nevada-California border. Checking the fuel gauge, Rex decided it was time for a little pick-me-up. He and Dean had traded cell numbers before leaving Lovette, and he hit speed-dial 7 to let Dean know of his plan. Dean picked up on the first ring.

"Hey… I'm a little low on gas. There's a filling station next exit, okay?… Man, you eat a lot… Okay then… Alright, bye."

Fifteen minutes later, the Chevy and Camaro pulled into the gas station parking lot. Rex got out and stretched. As much as he loved his car, it was nice to get out and walk. He set the gas nozzle in the Camaro and made his way over to Dean.

Inside the gas station convenience store, Rex paid for his gas and bought a pack of Marlboros while Dean perused the junk-food aisle. Making eye contact with his brother, Dean held up two fingers --_two minutes--_ which, upon further reflection of the candy selection, changed to five fingers. Rex headed outside. After dealing with his car, he made his way far, far away from the gas pumps and pulled out the pack of ciggies. God, he'd smoked more in the last two days than he had in the last two months. Addictive or not, Rex tried to limit his smoking. He needed his lungs in the best condition he could get-- he sure as hell didn't want to stop breathing while being chased by a wendigo someday. Still, the cigarettes helped him through the hard times. With nobody to care if he was gone, Rex rashly threw himself into hunts and smoked cigarettes. So he was self-destructive, who wasn't?

Rex pulled out a Zippo and--

"Did you just light a _cigarette?_" A voice demanded from behind him. Inhaling deeply and blowing out a gray flurry of smoke, Rex turned around.

"Well, they don't work as well when they're not lit," He explained. Dean stared at him hard.

"What the fuck, Sammy?! Did nobody give you the "Smoking is bad" speech?"

Rex took another drag. "Nope."

Dean's glare deepened. He held out a hand. "Give it here."

It was Rex's turn to stare. Who the hell did Dean think he was? "Dude, so not going to happen."

"You are _not _smoking, Sam."

"Technically, I think I am."

"Seriously? Do you have some kind of fucking death wish? What kind of idiot..." Dean trailed off.

"But, Mom," Rex mock-whined. "All the cool kids are doing it."

"Knock it off, Sam. I mean it."

"Dean, I smoke. Get over it." To Rex, it was a cut-and-dry situation.

Apparently not so much to Dean. The older hunter made a move towards Rex to snatch the cigarette away from his mouth. Rex stepped back and snarled.

"What the fuck, man? Lay off. This isn't your decision."

"Yes it is." Dean growled.

"You don't tell me what to do." _Nobody_ told Rex what to do.

"I'm your older brother, Sam. So yeah, I think I do."

Rex laughed. "Is that how you think this works? Newsflash, _brother_, I don't take shit from anybody. Let alone you."

Dean snorted. "You think I'm giving you _shit?_ I'm trying to keep you from getting lung cancer, you moron. Now-- Give. It. Here."

Rex took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground. He crushed the smoldering remains with the heel of his boot, before turning and walking away. Death-trap or not, there was no better way to make a dramatic statement than with a cigarette. He looked back over at Dean, who was standing where he'd left him and staring at the ashes of Rex's cancerstick.

"Not a fight you're going to win, Dean." Rex called.

Dean wouldn't win, because Rex made it a point to never lose.

Without looking back again, Rex walked back to his car.

* * *

A few hours later, Dean and Rex stopped for dinner at a fast-food restaurant just over the California state-line. They were making good time, but still had a long drive ahead of them. He and Dean had decided they would stop at the first motel they found once daylight ran out. They could drive straight on, but Rex wanted to be well-rested when he saw Jessica. With any luck, nights with his girlfriend wouldn't be about _sleep._

After the quick and strained meal, Rex and Dean walked out into the warm night. Dean stretched his arms languidly up to the slowly-dimming blue sky. Rex stared at the empty road that curved away from the restaurant and into a straight-away that disappeared over the horizon. A few miles of mostly-straight road, no cars on it but them…

"So, Dean," Rex said conversationally. "How fast do you think that piece of shit car of yours can go?"

* * *

_Piece of shit…?_

Nobody, _nobody_ insulted his baby. What the hell was his brother playing at? First the goddamn _smoking_, now he was trash-talking his baby?

"A lot faster than that ugly-assed jalopy of yours can." Dean retorted.

Sam snorted. "Oh, really? Not likely, man. Hell, if I was driving that thing I'd be more worried about it falling apart beneath me than trying to get it up to the speed-limit."

Dean stiffened. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

"Falling apart? This baby? You don't talk shit like that about this car. This car has _soul._"

"Soul, huh? Where I come from, we call that rust. But 'soul' works."

"My car is _not_ rusty."

"Well, it sure as hell isn't fast, either."

"Fuck you."

Sam smirked.

"She goes as fast as she needs too," Dean defended.

Sam's smile widened. "Yeah? Prove it."

"What are you getting at, Sam?" Dean had a feeling he knew _exactly_ what Sam was getting at.

"I'm saying you and me and a little contest. My ride vs. your sorry excuse for a car. A _race,_ Dean."

Dean grew quiet. A car race? Seriously? That was a bad idea on so many levels…

"Unless you're afraid you'll lose, of course." Sam continued.

Dean froze. There was no way this was happening. No way the kid had just insulted him like that. Uh-uh.

Still, Dean was the older brother. He had responsibilities. He wasn't letting Sam get into a dangerous street-race. It wouldn't be right. He would have to take the highroad, in the interest of keeping his little brother safe.

"Or maybe you're afraid that junker won't survive. In which case, I perfectly understand. No use running that hunk of scrap metal to the ground when you might have, I dunno, a few days left in it. Though why you think it's worth saving is beyond me. Hell, I'd turn it into a few dozen soda cans before even thinking of letting anybody see me driving that shitty sideshow."

Fuck that. Nobody insulted his car, not even Sam. The little twerp was _so_ going down.

He looked up and met Sam's cocky expression. "You're on."

Sam grinned.

* * *

The race would be until the end of the road, where Dean could distantly see it forked around a cluster of large warehouses. Just before the road split, there was a telephone pole with an indistinct green mark spray-painted on it. The finish line. Whichever car passed it first won.

The rules were simple, Sam explained. There weren't any. Just drive as fast as you can, don't slow down for any reason, and don't come crying when you lose.

Logically, Dean knew that the '69 Camaro was faster than his Impala. Though Dean's car did have a few tricks under its hood. Still, it would come down to who the better driver was.

Dean had this in the bag.

Hell, Sam learned how to drive from _him_. He knew how good the kid was. And he knew he was better.

As fiercely protective as he was of his car, beneath his anger Dean knew he would never have agreed to this unless he was sure it was relatively safe. The road was fairly straight, and there wasn't a single other vehicle on it. Plus, it was clear on both sides. And like he said, he knew how good of a driver Sam was. He knew Sam wouldn't get himself killed.

The Impala and the Camaro lined up side-by-side. The brothers had taken out their cell phones and set their respective alarms to precisely the same second. They'd take off at the same time, but with any luck his brother would finish behind him.

Beside the Impala, Sam's engine roared.

Dean looked out and made eye-contact with Sam, who grinned madly at him. He revved the engine.

Adrenaline spun its way through Dean's veins. He gripped the steering wheel tight and breathed in deep. God, this was living. _Life in the fast lane._

The seconds stretched on into lifetimes, and the anticipation built up. Both classic cars shook from the force of their engines, exhaust billowing out behind them. Any moment now…

Dean's cell phone beeped.

The cars charged forward. Tires squealed and engines sang in a wild predatory howl. Dean's eyes locked on the road in front of him. The rumble of the Impala shook him to his bones, more soothing than a Swedish massage. In his peripheral vision, the fields of brown weeds on either side of the road blurred into gold.

The asphalt rushed beneath him. His speedometer rocketed. Sixty… Seventy… Eighty… Ninety… One hundred… Way fucking beyond one hundred…Faster and faster still…

The speed limit wasn't broken, it was _annihilated. _

The Impala roared. Dean yelled out in sheer unihibited joy, the sound lost to the thundering engine.

_What a rush._

The Camaro inched ahead of Dean. Then it fell back as Dean pressed the gas pedal further. The cars traded the lead back and forth. A million miles away, the sun was slowly setting.

The huddle of warehouses was fast approaching, and the Impala took the lead. "Yes!" Dean cried out. Suck on that, Sam.

And then suddenly, the Camaro took on a burst of unexpected speed, zooming ahead of the Chevy. There was a rumbling roar as the Camaro passed him, whizzing by in a split-second explosion of noise. Dean could see the red of Sam's taillights now. Dean had no clue where the other car's acceleration had come from.

"Fuck!" Dean swore. The Camaro sped ahead. Dean pushed his foot to the floor, but the Impala had nothing left to give.

Except… The road curved slightly here, and Dean was in the inside lane. Maybe if he…

The dark blue car flew over the yellow line, cutting in front Dean suddenly. Dean let his foot off the gas.

Oh god, oh god, he was going to hit his brother…

But Sam had passed him far enough ahead and was going fast enough so as to avoid collision. And dammit, Dean _had_ taught the kid everything he knew.

The Impala slowed down behind the blue Camaro, the speedometer sluggishly dropping. Dean eased into the lane opposite of Sam. He hit the gas pedal again, hoping against hope he could still salvage this despite that dirty rotten cheating bastard's move.

The speedometer climbed back up, but the Camaro was racing ahead.

The Impala strained. "Come on baby, come on," Dean whispered.

"Come on, come on…"

The Camaro's exhaust flooded by Dean's window. He was going so fast now he didn't even want to check his speed.

And then the Camaro was going faster than the wind, speeding ahead and flying past the green-painted telephone pole, Dean just behind.

Race over.

"Goddammit!" Dean yelled. He let off the gas, and the Chevy slowed. Eventually, he hit his brakes and came to a full-stop.

"It's okay, baby," He whispered to his car, patting the wheel gently before turning the key in the ignition. "You did your best."

Dean got out of the car and settled against the hot metal sides of the Impala, arms folded.

Up ahead, Sam had yanked the wheel of the Camaro around and twisted the car as he skidded to a stop. Black streaks stretched out across the asphalt in an arc from behind his tires. The blue paint gleamed brightly and fiercely in the orange of the setting sun. The glare hit Dean from the side, blotting out his vision as he squinted past it.

Sam climbed out of the window of his car and scrambled to sit on the roof. He was shouting and laughing, arms raised to the sky. The sunset burned behind him, turning him into a black silhouette, a Sam-shaped shadow dancing in the glow.

Dean took a step forward and the angle changed, restoring his vision as his brother's victorious figure blocked out the sun. Sam slid off the roof of his car and landed on his feet with a quiet thud beside it. He leaned against the Camaro, grinning at Dean.

Yeah, yeah. Sam had won. Who cared about some dumb race anyway?

Sam, obviously seeing Dean's scowl, flipped him the bird. Dean returned the gesture, sticking his tongue out for good measure.

Sam laughed, and opened his mouth to say something.

The mammoth semi-truck came barreling out from behind the closest warehouse, driving straight into the glare of the setting sun and smashing into the Camaro with a deafening crash.


	12. Sunset and Asphalt

_Disclaimer: It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one, no._

_Warnings: Language, violence, sex, sensitive themes. Mostly just the first one in this chapter._

_A/N:AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

_Since there's some discrepancy on names across borders: Semi = Semi-trailer truck = big rig = eighteen-wheeler = tractor-trailer = articulated truck = lorry = you get the picture._

_

* * *

_

_Then: _

On the way to Stanford, something happens to Sam that results in him losing his memories of everything except how to hunt. For inexplicable reasons, this causes him to start going by the name of a dinosaur. After a short, disastrous time in the states, Rex then goes to Europe. Just because. He kicks ass and takes names (and gets his ass kicked and name taken. Whump!), meets Jessica Moore in France and starts dating her, and swiftly turns into a sarcastic, jaded bad-ass. After two years, he goes back to the US of A. Dean, meanwhile, has been hunting with John, thinking Sam's fine and dandy at Stanford. John ups and leaves a la canon, and Dean tries to tackle a hunt with a skin-walker on his own. Luckily for him, Rex shows up at the eleventh hour, disposes of the man-tiger, and is presented with the shocking revelation that he is actually Samuel Winchester. Dun-dun-dunnnn. The two brothers hug it out, and dissolve into tears and happy memories. Well, not quite. Two words: Alpha. Male. They agree to continue on to California to go see Jess, and on the way have a little car race (Because Rex/Sam has an awesome '69 Camaro that one of his contacts hooked him up with. Oh, by the way, Rex/Sam has contacts. Because he's double-O like that.). Rex/Sam wins! Yay! And then Semi-truck! happens.

* * *

_Now:_

Chapter Twelve: Sunset and Asphalt

* * *

Rex had been testing Dean.

He wanted to see how far he could push Dean, how far Dean would go. Not to mention, he was still kinda pissed about the whole smoking thing. Dean's bitchy controlling attitude was really starting to grind on his nerves. So Rex had picked a fight.

And he had _won_. Damn straight. Rex wasn't lying when he said he didn't lose. Roll_ that _up and smoke it, Dean.

The car race had been fast and glorious and intoxicating and exactly what Rex had been needing. He'd left the day's stress behind him in the dust.

He was gloating, the last dregs of his adrenaline high evaporating into the sunset. Dean was sulking, but Rex wasn't feeling so annoyed at him anymore. Who cared? He had _won. _Rex came in first. He exemplified this to Dean by holding up one finger.

Dean returned the gesture and stuck his tongue out at him. Rex laughed. Very mature. He was about to retort, when he became aware of a roaring.

Something was coming.

Rex wasn't sure if he heard or felt something bearing down at him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He looked to the side.

Time slowed as his brain muddled through what he was seeing.

He saw the gleaming metal of a semi-truck coming towards him, the hot sunset reflecting off of its dark metal skin. There were a dozen lights, bright white and red the same colour as the eyes of things that lurked in the darkness. It was rushing right at him. The horn began to blare.

His brain was taking all this in, scrambling to keep up with the information it was receiving. It was pure instinct that told his highly-evolved, analytical brain to go fuck itself and drove him to take a step forward.

There was a screeching crash of metal crunching against metal. 20,000 pounds of semi slammed into the parked Camaro, crumpling it. The semi kept going, the broken body of the Camaro wrapped around its bumper.

Rex was moving forward. There was a rush of wind against the skin on his back, as the truck hurtled right behind him.

Something sharp and metallic and enormous caught him in the side. Rex felt it catch in his flesh, felt the force of the collision spin him around and then send him hurtling through the air.

He landed hard on the tarmac and kept going, rolling over and over across the ground, elbows and knees and back and any other part of him that was sticking out scraping across the rough asphalt as he tumbled.

There was the thunder and lightning of another crash. The semi collided with the wall of another warehouse, the Camaro sandwiched between them. The piercing horn cut off abruptly. For a split second there was silence filled with Rex's harsh panting and the tart taste of blood in his mouth, a hazy flood of pain ebbing over him. The instant of silence stretched into a millennium.

And then the Camaro exploded.

There had to be a downside to keeping your trunk full of enough weapons to invade and conquer Nebraska. An enormous fireball ballooned into the sky, hot and swirling and expanding. Shrapnel rained down onto the pavement. There was another second-- _day, year, lifetime--_ of silence.

Rex lay stilled on his back, staring into the pink and orange sky. Someone was screaming.

Rex closed his eyes.

* * *

"_Sammy!"_ Dean screamed. _"Sam!"_

Jesus Christ, what the fuck just happened? His little brother had been side-swiped by a semi-truck. A fucking semi-truck! His body was flung into the air before crashing into the ground and rolling to a stop. A split-second. A split-second and it all happened before Dean could even move. _What the _fuck?

He was moving now. Sam lay still on the pavement. Dean ran towards him.

"Sammy!" He screamed again. He made it two steps further before a giant explosion shook the earth.

Dean flung himself to the ground, hands flying up over his head. The hot wind of the explosion blasted over his skin. From beneath the protective cover of his arms, he screamed his brother's name.

Dean was up and running a second after he hit the ground. He dashed to his brother's side and skidded to a stop on his knees, the asphalt ripping his jeans and embedding itself into his skin. Dean didn't notice.

"_Sam,"_ Dean implored. His brother lay motionless on his back. Wine-dark blood flooded around him.

_Christ_, Dean didn't know where to put his hands. They trembled in the air above his brother's body like a faith-healer's. Sam's clothes were crumpled, he was grimy from the asphalt and the dust of the explosion, and the blood was _everywhere._

Hesitantly Dean cupped his brother's face. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy. Shit, it's going to be alright."

Okay, think -- _think --_ Dean. Sam needed help. More help than -- Dean swallowed hard -- he could give him. That meant hospital. Which meant ambulance, which meant 911, which meant cell phone. _Shit_, cell phone. Where the fuck...? The car, right. The race, the cell phone beeping in the seat beside him. The car, parked a few light-years away. Right.

Dean's thoughts were jumbled and disjointed and hazy, roiling in cloudy water in his mind. He needed to _move_, to get help. Right. He could do this.

Swiftly, Dean rested a hand lightly on his brother's wrist and carded the other through his hair.

"I'll be right back, Sammy. Hang in there. You hear me, bitch?"

In an instant Dean was turning and running. He scrambled across the tarmac, yanked open the door to the Impala. He left bloody fingerprints on the plastic keys of his cell phone as he dialed, and Dean couldn't remember when he got blood on his hands.

Dean was already running back to Sam as he screamed at the 911 operative. He stayed on the line in accordance with her mild pleading, but let the phone drop to the ground as he tried to figure out what he could do to help his brother.

The golden glow of the sunset was slowly being leached from the sky, leaving behind muted gunmetal gray and the beginning darkness of night. The shadows rolled across the ground. Dean blinked back tears.

Sam's eyelids quivered and opened.

Hazel eyes were murky with pain, flitting about slowly, unable to focus. Finally, the peripatetic gaze settle on Dean.

Sam's mouth parted, trying to speak. His teeth and lips were dark with blood. Sam's hand clenched slightly, fingers dragging over the asphalt.

"De--" His voice broke and dissolved.

"Sam, hey, Sam, it's okay. It's going to be okay. Help's coming. You're going to be okay. You're going to fine. Try not to move, alright? Just-- just relax. Just stay calm. Stay with me, Sam, okay? Stay awake. Just... just _stay." _Dean babbled. Sam's eyes stayed focused on his face.

"Don't try to talk. Where are you hurt most, hey, Sammy? Where-- do you know-- what can I-- no, shit, don't talk."

Dean wanted to grab Sam, hold him close, but he was afraid to move him. Instead he crouched over him on his knees, gargoyle-like and protective, running his fingers through Sam's gritty hair rhythmically. He kept up a litany of _"It's okay, you're okay, it'll be okay, we'll be okay,"_ and Sam's eyes never left his face. They were wide and hurting and trusting.

Night continued to fall, and darkness swept over the brothers. Stars began perforating the blanket of sky, bright and cold and distant. There was no moon, but Dean's eyes adjusted with the dark. Sam's blood had soaked, warm and sticky, through his jeans onto his skin. The night grew cold, and Dean began to shiver. Sam didn't move. Slowly, Dean's skin grew numb.

Fuck this. If the ambos didn't arrive in the next sixty seconds Dean was moving his brother, back injury, internal bleeding, broken bones be damned.

And finally, finally, Dean heard sirens. Blue and red lights flared in the dark, hurting Dean's eyes. There was the squeal of brakes and slamming of doors and running of footsteps and the squeaky slide of the wheels of a stretcher.

The cavalry had arrived.

"What happened?" The lead paramedic demanded.

Dean rose to his feet, knees shaky and weak. His sneakers slid in blood.

"It's my little brother. There was an accident..."

* * *

Paris, and he spent four days in the sewers running from a pursuer that always caught him, released him, taunted him, then caught him again, fighting with broken bones and fear and the dread that comes from inevitability.

Barcelona, and a miscalculation locked him in with an abused and half-mad sphinx, asking riddles he can never answer --_Why is a raven like a writing desk?_ -- and mauling him when he got them wrong.

Krakow, and he spent a night in a leaky warehouse with a slobbering cynocephalus that had a thing for electricity and the delicate skin of his fingers and the soles of his feet and his face, biting his own hand to keep from severing his tongue.

Serbia, and there was a dhampir with a kettle of boiling water, and not a teacup in sight.

London, and a gang of werewolves tried to encourage him to leave the city with a pair of handcuffs and his own belt.

Germany, and an ancient Erkling, cruel and beautiful, was fascinated by him and the different noises that could be drawn from him.

Greece, and he spent three days in the icy water of a bathtub in an abandoned hotel, waiting for nobody to find him.

Scotland, and he was falling off of a cliff into the ocean below, the air zipping past him as he watched the cold and rocky waters approaching.

Colorado, and there was rain and desperation, and he made the decision that he'd take monsters any day over humans.

Rex knew pain. Intimately so. Hell, his earliest memory was waking up in a hospital with _pain pain pain_ throbbing through his veins with every pulse of his heart. He understood it and respected it and had learned to, if not control it, than live with it on his own terms. He had a history of pulling through agony that should've broken him.

But _fuck,_ this hurt.

* * *

Dean was holding very, very still. Inside his head his mind was thrashing and climbing up the walls, but outside he wasn't moving a muscle. His dad had taught him a long, long time ago how to hold perfectly still all night long for a hunt, through cold and rain and cramping muscles. The ability to be able to hold a stance, to stake-out prey without alerting it to your position, was prized in a hunter. And Dean was nothing if not a good hunter.

It was familiar, trying to outlast something uncomfortable without showing any signs that it was having an effect on you. It took his mind off of other things.

And goddammit, if he could spend an entire night unmoving in a Minnesota snow storm, or half-submerged in a Louisiana bayou, or in a cramped tomb in Virginia, than he could survive a few hours in a California hospital waiting room.

Hospitals were tricky business. Once he'd gotten all the blood off of his skin and refused any type of treatment, he'd been presented with a few wheelbarrows full of paperwork to complete. Christ, wasn't that hard. Just filling out the slot for Sam's name had nearly sent him into paroxysms. Samuel Winchester-turned-Rexford Doe-turned-Samuel Winchester. The hunter formerly known as...

Oh, and the whole "amnesia" thing went over really well. Dean had been faced with a barrage of skeptical looks and a plaintive "No, _seriously_..." as his only defense until the hospital had finally managed to contact Caliente General in Nevada. They confirmed the outrageous story and, luckily for all of them, got Doe/Winchester's medical records faxed over.

Of course, using Sam's real name meant no fake insurance, and it meant that the police investigation would be a lot more accurate than Dean would've liked, but they'd cross that hurdle when they came to it.

Dean was exhausted.

"Family for Winchester?" A voice called.

And finally, Dean could move.

"That's me," He affirmed, standing up and enjoying the stretch of his muscles.

The doctor was scruffy and square-jawed and had the hardy good-looks of an old action-movie hero. He extended a hand to Dean.

"I'm Dr. Katsky, I'll be in charge of care for your-- brother, is it?"

Dean nodded. "How is he?"

"Mr... Winchester... Doe... _your brother _is going to be just fine."

Dean exhaled shakily. Okay, good. That was good. "His name is Sam. And I'm Dean. What exactly is wrong with him?"

"Okay, as you well know, the accident Sam was in was rather severe. He sustained a great deal of blunt trauma to his back and side, resulting in severe contusions, multiple lacerations, and mild internal bruising. Sam's ribs are also bruised, and his arm has re-broken. The impact of the asphalt has also resulted in some rather spectacular road rash. Fortunately, the leather jacket he was wearing seems to have protected him from the worst of it. We're still working on picking out the gravel and cleaning the abrasions. The most serious of Sam's wounds have been cleaned and the kid's got about fifty stitches in him. We're keeping an eye on those for infection, but it looks good. Sam's arm has been re-set and re-cast, and his ribs are bound. Your brother should pull through just fine, Dean."

Dean let the doctor's words soak into him. Okay... okay... it was going to be okay. Lots of crap in there, but bottom line: it was going to be okay. _Sam_ was going to be okay.

The doctor smiled gruffly. "Frankly, it's amazing the kid got off like he did. An accident like that... well, it could've been a lot worse. I doubt this is what you want to hear right now, but he's damn lucky."

Dean nodded. The doctor was right; it wasn't what he wanted to hear right now.

"Can I see him?"

Dr. Katsky paused. "I'll see if the nurses are done for now. He's pretty well-sedated, but I don't see why not."

Katsky turned, motioning Dean to follow him. Calling back over his shoulder, he muttered, "Technically speaking, visitor's hours are over. But you probably care about that as much as I do."

Dean smiled. His face burned, like his muscles hadn't been used like that in a long time.

* * *

_I'm so sorry this took so long. Thanks for sticking around. And special thanks to all those who've reviewed/pm'd me.  
_


	13. Truth and Untruth

_Disclaimer: Did you get my letters? Why won't you return my calls? Look, I made this for you._

_Warnings: Language. Violence, sexual situations, and sensitive themes in other chapters.  
_

_A/N: Thank you so very much for all the lovely reviews! You guys rock. And roll. _

_I'm really interested in getting a beta reader. Except, I don't really want a conventional beta reader. I don't need someone to edit my spelling and grammar so much as I need someone with a good head on their shoulders to bounce ideas off of. I need a sounding board. I'm coming up to a big a decision in this story, right about where my outline peters out, I need someone to help me make the tough choices. It'd probably be best if they had knowledge of the Supernatural tv show, a good grasp of the English language, creativity, and some skill with digging people out of plotholes. I know FFN has a program just for finding a beta, but I'd like to check with the people who've actually read and maybe even enjoyed my story first. Anybody interested? Please PM or review me and we'll talk. Thanks._

_And now back to our regularly scheduled programming:  
_

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: Truth and Untruth

* * *

Rex dreamt of oncoming traffic and Colorado and his girlfriend burning to death above him, blood dripping down from her until it soaked the asphalt beneath him. He dreamt of bright yellow fireballs in the bright fiery sky, and dust and ash and rain falling down on him. He dreamt of smoke and he dreamt of speed and he dreamt of Jessica's stomach splitting open and everything inside of it spilling out.

Rex woke up.

He kept his eyes closed. He knew exactly where he was. Hospital. Fuck. It was a familiar feeling, waking up in one of _those_ places, trying to remember exactly what he'd done _this time_ to land himself in here. Waking up lonely and slightly miserable. Waking up alone.

"Hey, Sammy, you awake?"

What the...? Okay, that was new.

Rex opened his eyes.

Yep, hospital. Regulation pastel. Same old, same old. But there was something new here, something alien and strange...

"Sam? You okay?"

"...Dean?" He croaked out.

And suddenly, Winchester came into view. Bright green eyes sunken in purple shadows, raffish grin.

"The one and only." Winchester smiled wider, and Rex vaguely wondered how he managed that.

"What are you doing here?" He wondered.

Dean faltered. "What am I _doing_ here?"

Yes, that was what he had asked.

Dean gaped. "Um, hello? My brother tried to get in a fist-fight with a semi-truck! What the hell do you think I'm doing here?"

Rex watched him with questioning eyes. Winchester stared back incredulously.

"I'm here, you moron, because _you're_ here. You're _hurt._ Is this really that hard for you to understand?"

Rex opened his mouth to say something, but Dean cut him off, muttering.

"Of _course_ it's that hard for you to understand. You've probably spent the last _two years_ waking up in hospitals alone. Dammit, Sammy..."

He trailed off angrily. Rex was bemused, but a little impressed with himself that he had the ability to piss people off within five minutes of waking up.

Still... Dean was here. In the hospital. For_ him. _That was new. That was different. That was strange. Rex liked it.

Funnily enough, Rex didn't feel like pissing off the first person who'd ever visited him in a hospital that morning.

"Sorry," he offered up quietly. Dean looked at him strangely.

"I'm not _angry_ at you, you dumbshit."

Oh. Okay then. Rex shrugged. _Ow._

Dean seemed to struggle to figure out what he was going to say. Then he carefully explained, raking a hand through his uncombed hair.

"I'm angry that I wasn't there, Sammy. I'm angry that you were alone, hurt, without me. I'm pissed that you seem so damn surprised to see me. I'm angry at _me_, dude, and at the whole damn world, but I'm not pissed at you."

His voice was quiet, measured. Rex watched him attentively.

"And, Sam, I know it seems like you've only known me for a few days, but I wish you would realize that I'm sticking around. I'm in for the long haul. I don't think you get that. I'm not going to disappear, dude. I'm not... I'm not gonna leave you alone again."

Dean looked at him. In his eyes, all Rex could see was honesty.

Rex nodded, once, and Dean looked reassured.

The drugs kicked in, then, and Rex faded away. He thought he felt someone grasping his hand as he drifted off, but it could've been his imagination.

* * *

_Two days later..._

"Seriously?" Dean choked out between snorts of laughter.

Sam nodded, "Seriously. _Pink._ Scottie still thinks Luca's going to kill him." Sam shrugged. "He might."

Dean laughed again before managing to get control of himself. "Ah, man. That's priceless."

"Knowing Scottie, he's got a back-up tape hidden somewhere still. I'll have to borrow it someday."

"Oh yeah, I've got to see this." Dean agreed with a grin.

Sam was propped up in the hospital bed, dressed in a set of light-blue scrubs. He was doing better -- much better- and was itching to get out. Dean, Dr. Katsky, and the entire staff of nurses already enchanted with Sam's rare dimpled smile and heartfelt eyes, vehemently forbade that. Sam was staying put. At least for a few more days. And, mighty hunter that he was, he had pouted at the news.

Granted, Dean knew they'd be high-tailing it out of there a lot sooner than Katsky or anyone else expected. But Sam's health came first, and Dean wasn't budging until he was sure his little brother would be okay.

There was a soft knock on the doorframe and then a nurse, bearing a tray laden with exciting hospital food, came in. She set the tray down and swiftly checked Sam's vitals with a smile.

"Oh, Mr. Winchester?" She asked in the middle of fiddling with Sam's IV, looking at Dean as she spoke.

"Alice, how many times do I have to tell you: it's Dean, really." He gave her a disarming grin.

Alice blushed. "Well, Dean, there's some people from the sheriff's office outside who I think want to talk to you about Sam's accident."

Dean stiffened imperceptibly. It was more a reflex than anything. Dean knew that he and his brother, against all odds, seemed to be getting away Scott-free from this whole thing. The explosion had eliminated most of the evidence, and the town had neither the resources nor the motivation to examine the shrapnel scattered across the parking lot. Good thing, too, or they would've found out that most of the debris from crash was in fact the remains of many, many illegal weapons.

In fact, the brief police investigation had been more focused on investigating the negligence related to the out-of-control semi-truck. The city was far more worried about the Winchester brothers suing them then about asking too many tricky questions.

The semi was a bit of a mystery. As far as Dean knew, there had been no driver. The warehouse owners were citing mechanical malfunction. The limited forensics was backing them up.

It seemed a little fishy to Dean. But right now, he was more concerned with his brother's health and getting the hell out the hospital before somebody cottoned on to the fact that the brothers weren't actually paying for anything.

"Thanks, Alice," Dean winked at the girl. She made her exit, and then Sam and Dean were alone with Sam's dismal lunch.

Sam poked half-heartedly at the mush on his plate.

"It's not supposed to be this texture. Or this colour, for that matter." He sighed. "Do you know, where-ever you go in the world, hospital food's the same? It's all crap."

Dean smirked. "Sam, I'm gonna go talk to our boys in blue and see what they want. You gonna be okay?"

"I'll be fine, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes. Okay, so maybe Dean had been a little... clingy... these last few days. Truthfully, neither of the brothers really minded.

"Alrighty then. Have fun with your mush!" Dean began to walk out, when Sam's quiet voice called him back.

"Yeah, Sam?" He questioned, brow wrinkling.

Sam was staring at his food like the cure for cancer was hidden in its depths. He poked his dessert with a fork.

"Dean..." He inquired hesitantly, "Do I like blue jello?"

Dean paused. Huh. Okay. Weird question, but who he was he to judge?

"Yeah, Sam, you do." He smiled and shook his head. "Weirdo."

Sam nodded. His expression was contemplative.

"Hey... you okay?" Dean asked, slightly worried.

Sam looked up at him finally, and then smiled, a bright, dimpled smile. "Yeah, Dean. I'm fine. I'm just fine."

Okay. Fine. Freaky little brothers. Dean nodded and walked away.

* * *

"I just wanted to let you know, Mr. Winchester, that you and your brother have been found innocent of all wrong-doing. And the city would like to apologize, again, for the, uh, travesty wrought on your family." Deputy Deforester was young and baby-faced, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. He was so painfully new at the job that Dean had had to struggle not to laugh at the poor sucker every time they'd talked.

"Pretty much everything was destroyed in the crash. Your brother's car is in the impound lot, and he can come get it any time, but, uh, frankly, Mr. Winchester, there's not a whole lot left."

Dean nodded. He'd expected as much. Sam was going to be pissed.

"We did, however, find this." Deputy Deforester held up a sealed evidence bag. A black book was in it that Dean didn't recognize. He couldn't quite make out any distinguishing marks beneath the light reflecting off of the plastic.

"Somehow, it managed to survive. Beats me. The investigation's closed, so your brother can have it back now. We didn't read it, or anything." The deputy blushed. "Actually, we, uh, couldn't even get the thing open. And we didn't want to damage it. That's some lock your brother used."

Deforester handed it over. Dean held the book gingerly, staring down at it in confusion.

"Um, once again, thank you for your cooperation with this investigation. And we're sorry for all the trouble that's, er, befallen you in our town. We hope it won't influence your, ah, perception of it and that you come back and visit us again sometime!"

Dean nodded, and the Deputy took his leave.

He stared down at the bagged book in his hands.

_We couldn't even get the thing open..._

It had a standard, everyday lock.

He tilted the book in the light, and he could make out faint markings, just a shade off from the rest of the book's cover. Symbols. Wards. Protection from a dozen different cultures, all inscribed lightly on the book. Huh. No wonder Barney Fife couldn't open it.

It was a journal. It was _Sam's_ journal. Dean knew that without opening it. He wondered, dimly, if Sam had been subconsciously copying their dad.

Dean shrugged. He turned to walk back to Sam's room, sure that his little brother would be happy that something of his life had survived the wreckage.

Outside of Sam's door, he paused. He studied the black surface of the journal.

This was his brother's life. Everything he didn't know. Everything Sam was never going to tell him.

He thought of the kid in the room in front of him, the closed-off, jaded hunter. He thought off all the pieces of his little brother's life that he'd missed, that he'd never know about.

He thought about trying to understand Sam, trying to help him, trying to get back to being brothers with him.

He thought about his brother. His hurt, broken, little brother.

He made a decision.

Dean slid the book in the back of his waistband, tugging his jacket over it.

"Hey, Sammy. Good news! Investigations closed. We're off the hook."

Sam gave a small smile. "Well, that's good. Though, you know, technically we didn't do anything wrong."

"_This _time."

"_This_ time," Sam agreed. He paused, and looked up at Dean. "Hey... did they say... were they able... how's my car?"

Dean shook his head in the negative. Sam closed his eyes briefly, letting his head fall back to the pillows behind him.

"Aw, shit. Well, I guess I figured as much."

Dean nodded.

"So, did anything else manage to survive the wreck?"

"Nah, Sam," Dean lied. "Just you."

* * *

Across town, a man leaned casually against a telephone pole tattooed with green graffiti. He stared out across the empty parking lot, idly kicking at the charred remains of what had once been semi-automatic handgun.

In the darkness, he lit a cigarette. And watched.


	14. LongDistance and LongLost

_Disclaimer: Decidedly not._

_Warnings: Language, violence, sexual situations, sensitive themes. Oh, and some really, really bad deus ex Scottie.  
_

_A/N: OVER 200 REVIEWS! YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!_

_And thanks to all those who offered to help with the beta-ing. You're awesome. Oh, and thanks to my friend Isaac for the, uh, 'inspiration.' Say hello to Isaac, guys. I made him watch his first episode of SPN last night (BDABR, my personal favorite). He's a goner._

* * *

Chapter Fourteen: Long-distance and Long-lost

* * *

_The next day..._

"Hey, how's your shoulder doing?" Rex asked suddenly. He was studiously ignoring the pulse of pain running through his veins, seeping through him like venom. He'd _adjusted_ his morphine drip without the nurses' or Dean's knowledge. It gave him the awareness he was looking for but -- he gritted his teeth -- sometimes it seemed like it would be really, really nice to sink under the haze of painkillers.

Dean seemed taken aback by his question. "What?"

"You're shoulder. You know, where the giant tiger took a bite out of it?" It's usually hard to forget something like that. Rex knew that, right now, he could remember _every single one_ of his injuries.

"Oh. It's fine." Dean shifted.

"Okay. You've been changing the bandages?" He wondered.

"Yeah." That was good. The wound had been surprisingly neat, and Rex knew he had done a good job stitching, but it was still liable to get infected what with all the running around they'd been doing.

"Those stitches should probably come out soon," he suggested.

"Sam," Dean said incredulously, "You got hit by a semi-truck."

"Yes, Dean, I know. However, me getting hit by a truck has no bearing on how fast your shoulder heals." Rex said patiently. _And it still feels like I'm getting hit by a truck. Over and over and over and over..._

Dean stared. "Right."

"So, it's okay though? You could probably have one of the nurses look at it. That Alice seems rather fond of you."

"It's fine."

Rex shrugged, then winced at the movement. _Fuck. _"Alright, if you're sure."

Whatever. Rex got the whole macho thing. Seriously, though, this guy was his brother. Shouldn't Rex be asking after his welfare? Was that weird?

He fidgeted uncomfortably in a way that had nothing to do with the pain. He couldn't seem to say the right thing.

Dammit, he was bad at this brother-thing.

There was an awkward pause.

"Can I borrow your cell-phone?" Rex asked, apropos of nothing.

Dean shrugged, handing it over. "Sure. Why?"

"I have a feeling some people have been trying to call me."

Dean raised his eyebrows. What? Was it that surprising that people would willingly talk to him?

"Okay. Whatever." Rex stared at him. "Oh, what, you want me to leave? Alright, fine, fine. I can tell when I'm not wanted. _Personal _phone calls, are they?"

Dean waggled his eyebrows.

Rex shrugged, "Well, they're about you."

The eyebrows abruptly stopped waggling.

"Wha-- who the hell is calling you about me?"

"Dean, you randomly showed up in my life claiming to be my long-lost brother. Obviously, I had some people check you out."

"Seriously?"

"Well, yeah. For all I knew you were just some nut-job, or somebody I'd pissed off in recent years trying to get back at me. Trust me, there's a lot of those."

Dean gaped. "A _nut-job_?"

"Well, you did act a little crazy when we first met. Re-met. Whatever. At the time, I assumed it was the head injury. Nowadays, I'm not so sure." Rex smirked.

"You little..." Dean glared.

"So, I take it you're sticking around for this?"

"Hell yes. I'm not going to miss you guys talking about _me._"

"I figured as much." Rex nodded with a slight smile. He dialed Scottie.

"Hey, Scott, How-- you're in the middle of something? Don't you have a pause button?... Hacking into government servers, right... Okay, I'll wait... Call me back... Uh-huh..."

Rex clicked the phone shut. Dean shot him a questioning look.

A minute passed. Dean and Rex stared at each other in silence.

Another minute. Rex could hear the clock ticking. Dean's face was unreadable.

The landline next to the bed-- one Rex hadn't even realized was there-- began to ring. Dean stared.

Casually, Rex picked it up. Cupping a hand over the receiver, he said to Dean, "He probably just didn't want to use up all my minutes."

Dean fumbled, "But...how...?"

Rex shrugged (_Fuck, he had to stop doing that)_, "I try not to question it, really."

"Hello, Scottie. You free now?... Okay, good... So, which government was it this time?... Huh... Two minutes, I was beginning to think you were losing your touch... Right, right.... Sorry... Okay, so, did you get that info on the Winchesters?... Yeah... I'm beginning to think that, too... Actually, I'm with him right now... What's that?.... Oh, okay..."

He turned to Dean, "Scottie says hi."

Dean nodded weakly, "Right."

"He says hi back... No! No, I am not going to tell him that... Seriously, Scott... So, thing's are going well? How's your grandmother?... Tell her I say hi... Uh-huh... Um, I don't really have a place for her to send baked goods, Scott... Right.... Well, I'll just have to avoid her next time I'm in the country, won't I?... Uh-huh... Hey, listen, Scott, I was in a bit of an accident.... No, I'm fine... Fine... I'm okay... It was a lorry... No! Scott! Calm down!... Are you hacking into my medical files? You are, aren't you?... Scott! That's not why I called.... Listen, all of my stuff is gone. Destroyed. Ixnay. Okay?... Yes, I need replacements... think you can hook me up? Of course you can... Right, new ids, weapons, everything... No, no, I don't need a car, tell Jacobi that's okay... Alright, thanks, Scottie... Usual deal? Right. How are my investments, by the way? Oh, really?... Good. Okay. Scottie, I'm _fine_. Seriously... You have the file in front of you... Okay... No, I will not pass that along... Alright. Thanks, Scott... Send Nana my best. Right... Really, I'll be okay... Bye, Scott."

Rex hung up the phone and turned slowly to Dean. Winchester was giving him a pointed look.

"Scottie can be a little... dramatic." He explained.

Dean nodded slowly. "So, do I check out?"

"Looks like it."

"Right... What was that stuff about him replacing all of your shit? How does that work?"

"Scottie has... connections." Rex explained. "He'll contact people who'll contact people who'll do stuff, and, eventually, I'll get an address or six where I'll be able to pick up everything I wanted, bought and paid for."

"Bought and paid for by who?" Dean queried.

"Whom. And me, technically."

Dean gawked. "You have that kind of cash sitting around?"

"Well..." Rex shifted awkwardly. "Kinda. Not really."

"Explain." Dean demanded. Rex decided to let that slide.

"Okay, so, I get paid for doing hunting jobs, right? Not all of them, obviously, but sometimes. Or sometimes people will just give me what they can. Say, a home-cooked meal, which I never pass up. Or some sort of craftwork, which I can later sell. One family in the middle of nowhere once tried to give me a cow... Anyways, I can get a little revenue from that. Plus, I can make decent cash playing pool. And credit cards stretch surprisingly far when you're not actually paying. And Scottie handles most of my finances. He likes to make investments, and I let him do pretty much whatever he wants. So, Scott handles the purchases of anything I need using my money, and does all the legwork free of charge. In exchange, I pretty much help him with anything whenever he needs it." Rex started to shrug and then remembered, and stilled. "It's worked good so far."

Dean looked contemplative. "Right. Okay. I can deal with that." He finally said. "So, what did Scottie say that you refused to tell me?"

Rex blushed. "Like I said, Scottie can be a little dramatic."

Dean waited. "And...?"

Rex sighed. "And, he wanted me to let you know that he'll '_destroy you_' if this whole thing," He waved a hand between himself and Dean. "goes pear-shaped."

Dean snorted. "Destroy me?"

"Yep," he nodded.

"Who does this guy think he is, Mike Tyson?"

"Ah, no. Scott's a geek. Like, the geekiest of geeks."

"What's he going to do, chuck his mouse at me?"

Rex shrugged. "A few clicks and he could have the FBI, CIA, NSA, Homeland Security, Interpol, the Russian mob, the Italian mob, the Serbian mob, the Irish mob, any other mob he can think of, the Columbian cartel, the Bolivian cartel, all the other cartels, Hell's Angels, the IRS, the EPA, PETA, and Nigeria after you and all of your aliases, cancel all of your credit cards, and have your face plastered over every news station in the world."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Okay then. So, who's next on the list?"

They were in for a long night.

* * *

Many, many hours later, and Rex had finally managed to call all of his contacts. All of them had given their reports on the Winchester family, confirming what Rex already knew.

Looks like he was Sam Winchester.

Hoo boy.

He was tired, now. Besides the final confirmation that he was somebody else, his injuries were still getting to him. Not to mention, wading through the craziness that was his contacts was exhausting. He'd had to deal with all of their frantic concern once they'd learned about his accident (A small part of his mind, the part he rarely listened to, pointed out that it was perfectly reasonable for his _friends_ to be worried that he'd been hit by a _semi-truck_, but he shut it up. Bloody little optimist.). And, they were rather vocal on the whole Winchester thing. Dean had been a little surprised at the volume and creativity of the threats he was getting.

Now, Dean had gone off to get some sleep at Rex's insistence. Rex was tired himself. The throb of pain had increased as the day wore on, spreading under his skin relentlessly. But he still had one more phone-call to make.

"Hey, Jess... It's me... Yeah, how are you?... I'm-- I'm okay... Listen, babe, I was in a bit of an accident. I'm going to be okay, but, I'm in the hospital now... Yeah... No, I'm going to be just fine... I'll tell you all about it in a bit, okay?... Okay... I will... Hey, I've got a surprise for you... Yes... No, a good surprise... Jessie, I'm in California... No, seriously... Yes... To see you, of course... Yeah... I'm not that far away... Listen, I should be down there in a couple days, okay? Yeah... And, well, I've got another surprise... I found my brother... Or, really, he found me... Yeah... Well, you see..."

And that conversation went on late into the night. Rex fell asleep with the line still open, phone clenched in his hand, Jessica singing softly to him.

* * *

Dean clicked his cell-phone shut angrily. _Goddammit._

He really, really needed to talk to his dad.

Not that John would pick up, or anything. Dean really, really shouldn't have been surprised.

He had left more messages than he cared to think about on his Dad's voicemail this past week. Still no word from John Winchester.

Dean was pissed. And scared and hurt and lonely.

...But really, mostly just pissed.

* * *

_The next morning..._

Dean was humming.

"You know what's _not_ really stealthy?" Rex snapped. "Humming the Mission Impossible theme while trying to sneak out of a hospital."

"_Somebody's_ grouchy," Dean said. "Good thing _somebody else_ remembered to fill those prescriptions, hmmm?"

Rex harumphed. It was hard to glare at someone when they were pushing your wheelchair.

Covert operation or not, Dean had insisted that he ride out on wheels.

Finally, they managed to make it out the hospital doors. Luckily for them, the nurses were helpless beneath the combined power of their charm.

Dean was just wheeling him around to the passenger side of the Impala when Rex forced the chair to a halt. Dean yelped as he ran into the back of the wheelchair.

"Ow! What the hell was that for?"

"I'm driving." Rex declared.

"Uh, no. Sorry, but no, Mr. I-Just-Got-Hit-By-A-Semi-Truck. _No._"

"I. Am. Driving." Rex restated.

"No way in _hell,_ Mr. I'm-Going-To-Be-Drugged-To-The-Gills."

"I'm driving!"

"No, no, _no_, Mr. I--"

"Dean! I am going to be driving this damn car whether you like it or not!"

"Sam--"

"_Listen_! I'm fine, okay? Alright, maybe I'm not _one-hundred percent_, but I am more than capable for driving for at least part of this trip, alright? I've dealt with worse. Much worse. This is nothing."

"I know you've had worse, Sam," Dean said quietly. "But that's not the point. The point is... the point is, now you don't have to."

Rex grew quiet. Oh. Okay. He got that. Sort of. But still... "Dean. I've been in that hospital for almost a week, okay? I've just been lying there, doing nothing... I don't like doing nothing. But now, now I'm going to see my girlfriend. I'm going to see _Jess_. And I want to do _something._"

"Sam, I'm sure there will be plenty of time to 'do _something_' once you see Jess."

"_Dean._"

"But, Sam, this is my car..."

"I thought," Rex said softly, "I thought, from what you said, that she was my car, too."

And then he turned, and gave Dean a full-blast of the puppy-dog eyes.

Dean's feelings on that was, quite clearly, _oh shit._

"Alright, alright, I get it." Dean said with a huff. He probably also got that they shouldn't be standing in the parking lot of the hospital they just snuck out of. "You can drive. _But, _not the whole way, and you do need to sleep for at least some of this trip, okay?"

"Okay!" Rex said eagerly. He made a grab for the keys. Dean yanked them out of reach, before reluctantly handing them over.

Soon, they were pulling out of the driveway, Rex happy to be at the wheel. The car rode perfectly.

Dean sat hesitantly beside him, and Rex had the odd feeling he had won an argument that, in another time and place, he would have always lost.

* * *

Sam's journal was hidden beneath Dean's socks and porn at the bottom of his duffle. His few attempts to open it had been futile, and had left the skin on his hands itchy and uncomfortable. No more than he expected, really. He'd have to use some proper tools, consult some experts, if he wanted to get the damn thing open. And he did. Oh, he did. The longer it stayed hidden in his possession the more and more eager he was to find out what it said.

There was something about the way that Sam looked at him now, something about the measure of trust he could see in his eyes, that made something twisted and hot squirm in his stomach. He ignored it.

Sam still wasn't telling him things. Important things. Things he still didn't know.

But he would.

On the other hand, maybe Sam did deserve something of his own to hang on to. The black leather jacket that had protected Sam as he tumbled across the tarmac had been pretty damaged. But Dean had managed to find a leather goods company in town and had given it to them to do the best they could. With any luck they would manage to salvage something out of it. Hell, it had protected his brother -- he was all for restoring the thing. The company had instructions to mail whatever the came up with to Jessica Moore's address in Stanford.

Maybe when Sam got it, it would quiet that squirming thing in Dean's stomach.

* * *

John flicked his phone shut with a snap. He sat down on the musty motel bed hard, knees creaking a bit beneath him. Maybe he was getting too old for this.

He looked out the window, the crumpled Venetian blinds half-closed, a white line of salt barring entrance. A room with a view -- the crumbling parking lot and power lines lay out beneath him. His old truck looked lonely in the corner spot, half-disappearing in the blackness of the asphalt and twilight.

S_ammy..._

Dean had found Sam. John hadn't even known he was missing.

Amnesia... skin-walkers... semi-trucks...

His boys were bad off.

And Sam, oh God, _Sam_...

His sons needed him. Needed him bad, from the sound of it. He hadn't heard that note of panic in Dean's voice in a long time. Not since he was eighteen, maybe, and that hunt down in Mississippi had gone south.

He stared out the window a little longer. He was so close to Mary's killer. So close.

His boys needed him.

If he left now, he might lose the trail. He might never get this close to the thing that had killed his wife again.

Sammy was hurt. Dean sounded...bad.

_Shit._


	15. Going and Getting

_Disclaimer: I put baby in a corner._

_Warnings: Just language in this one. Lots of language. And some of it's not even very polite. Violence and sensitive themes and blah blah blah in others._

_A/N: This is the Super Special Spectacular chapter. It's all in dialogue. I know, crazy, right?  
_

_A gazillion thanks each to Skag Trendy and UpstairsMind for the plot-help, and to BlueEyesDemonLiz for the beta. Rock on, luvs, rock on._

_As ever, thanks to _you, _dear reader, for reviewing._

_Have a good time:_

* * *

Chapter Fifteen: Going Fast and Getting Somewhere

* * *

"So, blonde, huh?"

"Yep."

"And blue eyes?"

"Uh-huh."

"She hot?"

"Very."

"Legs?"

"Go all the way up."

"And her...?"

"Dean!"

"What?! I'm trying to look out for my brother's welfare! Gotta make sure this girl's good enough for my little bro."

"Right. Well, I'd prefer it if "looking out for my welfare" didn't involve you making rude hand gestures about my girlfriend."

"That wasn't _rude_, Sam, that was a perfectly respectable demonstration of what her--"

"Dean!"

"_Geesh_, Sammy, it's a _compliment_. S'not like I was making them--"

"Dammit, Dean, I will pull this car over!"

"But then we'd get to Jess's place even slower."

"At this point, I'm not sure that's a bad thing."

"Aw, c'mon, Sam. Relax. I'm not going to do anything embarrassing."

"Right. You? Embarrassing? Never. I couldn't even imagine. I'm sure my forgotten childhood is filled with you being a calm, collected individual hell-bent on making sure nobody's feelings got hurt and everybody shared."

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Sasquatch."

"Really? That's all you got? I'm _tall?"_

"Hey, in some cultures I'm sure that's a bad thing. Hell, in _this_ culture we're off-put by freakish giants."

"Dean, to you, everybody is a giant."

"Really? That's all you got? I'm _short?"_

"You started it."

"Uh-uh, _you_ started."

"I did not! You started it!"

"No, you did!"

"No-- how the hell did _I_ start it?"

"It's your girlfriend, bro."

"Oh, right, and you being an idiot who only thinks with his downstairs brain has _nothing_ to do with it ?"

"Ouch."

"..."

"Seriously, Sammy, calm down. I do know how to treat a woman well."

"Yeah, okay. Sorry."

"Yeah, I treat 'em _well_, if you know what I mean..."

"Dean!"

* * *

"How you doing?"

"I'm _fine_, Dean."

"Pain bad?"

"No."

"Do you need some more pills?"

"No."

"Are you hungry? Do you want something to drink?"

"No."

"Cold?

"No."

"Are y--"

"Dean! I'm fine! Seriously!"

"...You sure?"

_"Yes!"_

"Alright, alright, no need to get tetchy."

"...Dean, I'm okay. I'm alright. I know that... I know I must've been pretty bad off. But I'm _fine._ Or at least, I will be... I'm not going to break, Dean. And I'm not going anywhere. Okay?"

"Okay."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm sure."

"...Dean?"

"What?"

"I'm hungry."

* * *

"Okay, so I got you a roast beef and some chips."

"Dean, you have six bags of chips there. And two bags of M&M's! We're only five hours from Jess's."

"Yes, but this is _California_, Sam. There's traffic. There's always traffic. It's like the state motto."

"I am _sure_ that California's state motto is _not_ "there's always traffic.""

"Ya, but wouldn't it be kinda cool if it was? Straight-forward and honest. A lot better than... whatever their motto is. Besides, I couldn't decide between peanut and plain, so I got both."

"Eureka."

"Gesundheit."

"No, eureka. The California state motto is 'Eureka.'"

"What? That's not even in English! This is America!"

"It's Latin, it means 'I found it.' You know, like during the gold rush."

"No, I do_ not_ know, Sammy. And it frightens me that you do. Why the hell _do_ you know, anyway? You haven't even been in this country for the last two years! You're like, barely a citizen!"

"My girlfriend lives in this state, remember?"

"And _that's_ what you guys do? Discuss the state motto? My god, I can see already how this trip is going to turn out. You two will probably break out the commemorative quarters and we'll all go hiking to look at golden poppies."

"...Wait, how the hell do you know that California's state flower is a golden poppy?"

"..."

"Yeah, and _I'm_ the geek."

"We went here a few times when we were kids, okay? I tried to pick one once and some park ranger threw a fit. Apparently they're endangered or something."

"...You were picking flowers?"

"Yes."

"...How old were you?"

"..."

"_Deeean..._"

"I was fifteen, okay?"

"You were fifteen? Picking flowers? Oh man, you are gonna love our commemorative coin collection."

"It was mother's day."

"...What?"

"It was mother's day. I was picking flowers for mom. In memory of mom. You were, too."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"..."

"... Dad almost knocked that park ranger's lights out."

* * *

"So, who's the hottest girl you've ever slept with?"

"_What?"_

"...Just making conversation."

"Riiight."

"So...?"

"...Jess."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"God, you're no fun. Okay, so, _besides_ your girlfriend, who, dude, totally does not count..."

"Seriously?"

"Yes!"

"Okay, okay... well, there was Elodie, she was a dancer. French, brunette, flexible... And there was Sonja, she was wild. Crazy. Man she did these things... And there was Hedda, she had curves like... well... And Paloma, she had these big doe eyes... and Antoinette, man, she was _gorgeous_... And Katia, she had these lips... And Lulu, well, she did my tattoo, and Cleo--"

"Wait, _what?_"

"What, Cleo?"

"No, Lulu."

"What about her?"

"She did your _what_?"

"Oh, my tattoo."

"You got a tattoo?!"

"...Yes?"

"_Geez_, Sam... Can I see it?"

"Oh, um--"

"Oh, god! It's not somewhere gross, is it?"

"No! No. It's on my leg."

"Your _leg?"_

"Well, yeah. Right above my knee."

"What is it?"

"It's a dog. A three-headed dog."

"Why?"

"We were in Greece. It seemed apropos."

"Right."

"Lulu said it had something to do with symbolizing the myriad facets of my personality."

"Huh. Well, there's Sam and Rex... what's the other one?"

"I don't know, Dean."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

"So, Lulu was...?"

"Oh yeah."

* * *

_"Putain! Petit con!"_

"Oh my god, are you swearing in French?"

"That asshole cut me off! _Merdre!_"

"Yeah, but _French_?"

"What's your point? _C'est un vrai con_."

"You're speaking French!"

"I thought we established that."

"Yeah, well, you weren't speaking French a few years ago. What other hidden powers are you suddenly going to reveal? Were you bit by a radioactive spider? Struck by lightning? Fell into a pool of radioactive waste? Tell me now, and dude, I am so _not_ the sidekick."

"Well, I speak Italian, too."

"Really? So why weren't you swearing in Italian?"

"I wasn't really thinking about it. I don't actually plan out my cuss words. And why does it matter?"

"Well, because swearing in Italian is _cool._ The Godfather swears in Italian. Swearing in French is just... pussy."

"That's not an adjective, Dean."

"Fine, pussy-_ed_."

"My god, how do you even speak English?"

"Hey now, I know enough French to get by."

"Really?"

"Sure. _Voulez-vou coucher avec mois ce soir_?"

"No, thank you."

"I didn't mean _you_. I was simply trying to convey the point that that's _all_ the French any respectable man should ever need."

"Okay. I'll keep that one in mind next time I'm negotiating with an angry French warlock. Ooh, or Customs! I'm sure they'd _love_ to hear that one. Or the Police Nationale. Or, you know, any women with self-respect."

"Man, it's not what you say, it's how you say."

"Yes, and I'm sure your charming and accurate accent will get you far."

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. No need to be jealous."

"Uh-huh. Sure. Jealous."

"Yep, it's okay. I understand. It's hard to compete with this much awesome. Anyway, any other languages?"

"Well, I'm not bad at German or Spanish. And I've got a few others that are passable as long as no one asks any tricky questions. Oh, and Latin, of course."

"Well yeah, but even I know Latin."

"...So, that whole 'eureka' thing earlier?"

"Hey, I, unlike some people, have a reputation to maintain."

"Right."

* * *

"I did tell you not to get the 64-oz."

"But it was such a great deal! I couldn't pass it up! Plus, it was delicious. Oh man, oh man, can this car go _any_ faster?"

"Dean, I'm already twenty miles above the speed limit."

"Speed limit! It's just a suggestion! C'mon, c'mon..."

"Are you alright?"

"No! No I am not alright! I am about to explode into a million bits all over my beautiful car! My poor baby. I hope you forgive me."

"I forgive you."

"Not _you._ My _car_."

"Oh, of course. The fact that little pieces of Dean will soon be raining down on me because _somebody_ had to buy a 64-oz drink full of _every single kind of soda the store had _and _somebody_ had to drink it _all_... well, no, that should have no bearing on whether or not you apologize to me."

"She's a really nice car."

"I know, Dean. I can see that."

"You called her a piece of shit."

"Among other things."

"..."

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I know it's kind of a low blow to insult a man's car. What can I say, I fight dirty. She's a nice car, alright? A very nice car."

"You grew up in this car. This car was your home."

"She's a very nice car."

"Yeah. She is."

"Dean?"

"What?"

"I think... I think all things considered, it was a nice home."

"Yeah, it was. It is."

"I'm... I'm glad to be back."

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Can you drive any fucking faster?"

* * *

"Tell me about Mom."

"..."

"...Dean? Look, you don't have to tell me. I was just... you don't have to tell me."

"No, no, it's alright. I was just thinking. You asked that before, you know. You used to ask me all the time when you were a kid. When you were a teenager though I guess you just sort of... stopped."

"Oh."

"Mom... you never really... you never really got to know her. But she... she would've loved you, Sammy. She _did_ love you. She used to sing to you, every night. And read to you. Even before you were born, she was reading to her belly. She loved you."

"Huh..."

"Mom was beautiful. I thought she was the prettiest woman in the world when I was a kid. I guess I still do. She had a smile kind of like yours. She was funny and smart and brave and kind and a really, really good mom."

"I miss her."

"Me too."

"It's funny, I don't remember her. At all. But I still miss her. It's crazy."

"It's not crazy, Sam."

"...Tell me more?"

"She used to smell like Chanel 5. Not too much, though. Said it made her feel like Marilyn Monroe. And she used to make things. Little things, crafts and projects. She was always making things. Even if we were just sitting at a restaurant, she'd be playing with her napkin, folding it into shapes and tearing it apart. She used to make really ugly things. She was never that good at crafts."

"Well, I know where I got my artistic side from."

"That's for sure. Man, Sammy, you used to bring home the _ugliest_ drawings as a kid... But Mom... Mom wasn't good at art, but she was good at talking. At telling stories. She used to make them up for us every night, to help us get to sleep. And she would play games with me. With us. Knights and dragons and cowboys and Indians. That kind of thing. She was... she was a good mother. I miss her."

"...What about dad?"

"Dad... he was a good dad. He is a good dad. I imagine he'll be pretty stoked to see you again."

"Where is he?"

"Ah... I'm not sure. Around. He's... hunting."

"The demon that killed Mom."

"Probably."

"...It messed him up pretty bad, didn't it?"

"Yeah, Sam, it did."

"Oh. Has he... has he said anything to you about me?"

"I haven't talked to him."

"He still won't answer?"

"Not yet."

* * *

"Sam?"

"Mzzrrr..."

"Sam? Hey, Sammy?"

"Nrrrmmm..."

"You asleep?"

"Mmmmuh"

"Okay, kiddo, okay. You go back to sleep."

"Mmmphhh... D'n?"

"Yeah?."

"Oh... G'night, D'n..."

"Sleep well, Sammy."

* * *

_French translations:_

_Putain - Literally, "whore," in this case used as a frustrated exclamation, like "damn," "shit," or "fuck"_

_Petit con - Little cunt _

_Merdre - Shit_

_C'est un vrai con - He's a real cunt_

_Voulez-vou coucher avec mois ce soir - Do you want to sleep with me tonight. Made famous by the Labelle song "Lady Marmalade"_


	16. Love and War

_Disclaimer: I _can_ handle the truth._

_Warnings: Foul language, violence, sexual situations, baked goods, and sensitive themes.  
_

_A/N: Finally. Jess._

* * *

Chapter Sixteen: Love and War (But Mostly Love)

* * *

"I knew we should've turned left back there." Dean grumbled.

"Quiet." Sam said tersely, scanning the street outside the passenger window. "I'm sure it's around here somewhere."

"What was the address again?" Dean asked.

Sam sighed. He repeated the address for Jess's apartment, admittedly for about the fifth time.

"This is the fifth time I've told you. It hasn't changed."

Dean chose to ignore him.

"Hah! There." Sam finally announced, pointing. Dean followed his gaze, critically eyeing the apartment Sam indicated. Huh. Jess rented out the left side of tiny, divided bungalow. With Palo Alto real estate being what it was, it probably cost twice as much money a month as Dean could expect to see in a year. It looked like a nice enough place, though. Through the gauzy curtain in the window, he could see the silhouette of a potted plant. How very homey.

Dean pulled up and parked. He could practically feel Sam buzzing with energy beside him.

His brother was out the door and charging up the front steps before Dean had even undone his seat belt.

Damn. He was really beginning to suspect that Sam loved this girl.

There was a TV playing inside the house, alternatively casting blue light and shadows out the window. Somebody was changing the channels rapidly, tinned sitcom laughter blurring with overenthusiastic infomercials and the dried-up voices of the History channel experts.

Slowly, he made his way to the front door to stand by Sam. He wasn't nervous. There was no reason to be nervous about meeting your brother's girlfriend. No reason at all.

He wasn't nervous.

It didn't matter if she didn't like him. Really. Besides the fact that Sam had, in his mind at least, known and trusted this girl for far longer than he'd known and trusted Dean. Besides the fact that Sam might value her opinion more than that of a random stranger linked to him only by blood.

He wasn't nervous.

Sam reached out to ring to the doorbell, then paused, hand hovering over the button. His brother took a deep breath, seemingly steeling himself. They hung in limbo for a moment, Sam staring straight ahead, looking, for the first time that Dean had seen, slightly scared.

A sudden silence enfolded them as the TV was abruptly muted. There was the soft patter of bare feet on wood floors inside the apartment and all at once, before Dean had time to fully strategize, the door was flung open.

_"Rex!"_ There was a high-pitched cry and a blur of blonde hair and jeans launched itself at his brother.

Dean sidestepped to avoid a flailing elbow. A slender young women with tousled golden hair -- Jess, he assumed-- had latched on to Sam, arms wrapped around his neck, burying her face in his chest. Sam had caught her easily and was engulfing her in his arms, eyes closed, breathing her in.

It was kind of cute, in a cheesy way.

Dean shifted awkwardly.

After a while, a long while, they pulled apart. Jess looked up at Sam, eyes smiling.

"How long were you going to stand on my doorstep like some sort of creepy stalker, T?"

"Do you get a lot of creepy stalkers on your doorstep this time of night?" Sam asked, with a slight grin.

"Just you." She smiled. Silhouetted in the golden light of the hallway, half of her face ethereal in the bluish light of the TV screen, Dean could see that she was beautiful.

Jess peered around Sam to stare at him. "You must be Dean, right?" she asked. She stepped around her boyfriend and extended a hand.

"I'm Jess. But I'm guessing you knew that." Her smile was friendly, but her eyes were slightly cool, studying him.

"Yeah, I'm Dean. Nice to meet you." He flashed her a smile that was all teeth.

She nodded, shaking his hand. "It's good to meet you, too. Now, c'mon in you two. It's cold and I'm barefoot."

She grabbed Sam's hand, dragging him behind her, and he smiled sheepishly at Dean. Dean gave him a weak smile back, and followed them inside.

Dimly, he heard Jess whisper to Sam, "I missed you."

"I missed you, too," Sam breathed.

He closed the door behind him.

* * *

Jessica hurried around the kitchen, doing nothing that Dean could make heads or tails of. Cabinets were opened, drawers were shut, and there was a continuous rattle of forks and knives and spoons and dozens of kitchen implements that Dean didn't know the name of-- was that a whisk?-- being moved from one place to another. He had no idea what the girl was doing, but within a few minutes, a tray of brownies was set in front of him and Sam, so he figured it was all good.

The brothers were sitting on the couch slightly uneasily. Though the brownies helped.

Jess stood in front of them, hands on her hips. There was an awkward silence.

"The nineties called," She finally said. "They want their flannel back."

The two brothers looked at each other.

"All my stuff was ruined in the crash," Sam explained. "I had to borrow some of Dean's."

_What was wrong with flannel? _He reached for a brownie.

"Right." Jess said with an eye-roll. "I suppose it's just good to see you in something with _colour_, for once, T."

"Colour is not stealthy, Jessica. We've had this conversation." Sam said patiently. Dean ate another brownie.

Jess snorted. "Please. Like the ghosts and ghoulies will really mind if you display some sense of fashion."

Dean choked on his brownie.

Amidst Sam furiously pounding on his back he managed to gasp out, "_What?"_

Jessica looked un-phased at the whole incident. "Fashion sense, Dean. Though judging from your proud sporting of the lumberjack look, I'm not surprised you don't recognize it."

"Not that!" He glared. "Ghosts and, and... _ghoulies_."

Jessica frowned. "Yeah. Ghosts. Ghoulies. Things that go bump in the night. Rex said you were a hunter, like him. Did I miss something?"

"She knows?" Dean demanded.

"You didn't tell him I know?" asked Jess.

"She _knows_?"

"You didn't tell him I know." Jess surmised.

"Didn't I?" Sam asked innocently, taking a bite out of his brownie.

"You told your girlfriend about hunting?" He growled. What the fuck?

Sam shrugged. "It would have been kinda hard to keep it from her, dontcha think?"

"I can't believe you told her! You can't just tell people you hunt monsters for a living. That's like, rule number one for hunting!" He was floored.

"Yeah, well, Rexie's never been much for rules," Jess said cheerfully.

"Besides," She continued. "I sorta found out on my own."

_Okay, what?_

Sam's eyes darkened. "One night, work followed me home."

"Alright, hold on." Dean held up his hands. "You," He said, pointing to Sam. "Explain."

Sam sighed. "Paris. I was hunting _loups-garou_. Werewolves. _French _werewolves. Tricky bastards. They've got a long history there. Not to mention, I've pretty much been blacklisted by all of Europe's werewolves."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Long story. Anyway, I thought I'd got the last of this pack. I _definitely_ thought none of them would find me. Chance meeting, lucky sonuvabitch. I stopped at a pharmacy on the way home--stupid, really-- but one of them must've been there, and must've caught my scent."

Sam was clenching his hands, knuckles turning white.

"Jess was at my flat when I got back. Well, not _my_ flat. But the flat I was staying in. The owners just didn't exactly know I was staying there. Anyway, she surprised me. And then, later, the werewolf surprised us."

"_Coitus interruptus per canis_, if you will." Jess chimed in. Sam blushed.

"Yeah, well. I shot it pretty quick--"

"Actually," Jess interrupted. "_That's_ what freaked me out. The fact that you'd been keeping a gun under the pillow while we had sex."

"I like to be prepared," Sam defended.

"Oh, I know," Jess purred.

Dean coughed.

"Anyways!" Sam got back on track, "I then had to explain to Jess why there was a dead man in our room."

Dean was skeptical, "And you believed the whole "babe, he was a werewolf!" story?"

Jess shook her head with a smile. "Nope. But he showed me the body of a bicorn he'd killed."

"Bicorn?"

Sam nodded. "Fat, cat-like thing with two horns, usually found in the French countryside. Relatively harmless, unless it eats you."

"Rather distinctive though." Jess added.

"So, he kills a guy in front of you, claims that the dude was a werewolf, then shows you a dead cat, and you believe that he's some kind demon-slaying ninja?" he asked incredulously.

"Hey," Sam objected, "whose side are you on?"

He held up his hands in defense. "I'm just trying to figure this out."

"Well," Jess said slowly. "It helped that he exorcised a demon in front of me."

Dean stared.

"Hey, I figured I might as well go all out."

"And I was pretty hard to convince," Jess said.

Dean continued to stare.

"I wanted her to know," Sam said quietly. "Not just for me. Not just for us. I wanted her to know, so she could be aware of the danger out there. So she could protect herself."

"Speaking of," Jess interrupted. "Did you notice the salt?"

"Oh! Yeah! I was going to say. Nice job." Sam grinned at her proudly.

"Yes, well, all my friends think I'm crazy but I just tell them it's part of my culture and they let it go."

He glanced at the windowsill. Sure enough, there was a line of salt deposited on it.

_Jesus Christ._ This was a lot to take in.

"So, T." Jess's voice suddenly turned sharp. "You lied to me."

"I-- what?" Sam asked in confusion.

"You. Lied. To me." Jess glared. "This," She waved a hand in front of him. "Is _not_ fine. _You_ are not fine."

"Hey, come on, it's not that bad..." Sam protested weakly. Both Dean and Jess snorted.

"God, Rex, if I wasn't so _used_ to you coming home looking like you went ten-rounds with a big rig..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "You are not fine. But you _will_ be. Oh, you will be. I'll make sure of that."

Sam looked a little frightened.

The conversation dwindled a little after that. Mostly, it was just Sam and Jess, catching up. They talked in soft voices, while Dean just sat there.

God, this was a lot of new information.

He sat dumbly, mind a bit over-whelmed that Sam had told somebody about hunting. That Sam had a girlfriend. That Sam had a life, without him.

"Here, Dean," Something cold was pressed into his hand. Dean took it numbly. It was a glass of milk.

He looked up.

Jess smiled at him, far kinder than she had looked all night so far.

"Don't suppose you have anything stronger?" He quipped.

"I don't think that's what you need right now." She said carefully.

Oh, Dean was pretty sure that that was _exactly_ what he needed right now. But he just nodded silently.

"Hey," Sam rested a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," He said, shaking himself. He plastered on a grin. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just... It's been a long night."

Sam stared at him contemplatively before giving a small smile in return. "Okay."

Dean turned to Jess. "Man, if you can make pie as good as you can make brownies I might just hafta steal you away from Sam." His grin upped a notch, turning devilish.

Sam rolled his eyes. Jess smirked. "Not so sure Rexie will take that lying down. But how's cherry work for you?"

His grin softened into something real. "Cherry works just fine."

* * *

Dean was set with new sheets on the couch, the platter of brownies -- covered now with nothing but crumbs -- was left for the morning, and Jess lead him into her bedroom by the hand as he shut the door behind him.

She looked up at him, eyes liquid with happiness, smiling softly in that way that barely curved her pink lips. And God, Rex had missed her.

Before he kissed her, Rex looked like his cage-doors had been opened. Jess looked like she had finally come home, like someone had finally found her. They kiss in a way that was long and slow and burning hot inside of them. It felt pure, like damp early mornings when the air is crisp and unspoiled. Jess tasted like vanilla and sugar and the only thing keeping his feet on the ground.

His good hand skimmed down her back, coming to rest beneath her curves. Her hands reached up and grasped his neck, his skin warming beneath her fingers.

Jess's mouth parted with a gasp that lowered to a long moan. Her fingers twisted in his short hair. He slid a knee up between her legs and her breath hitched, and then Jess's back was against a wall and Rex's mouth was hot and wet and open against hers. Her lips were soft and her skin smelled like lavender and Rex wondered how many years a moment can last. The kiss was comfort and harmony and Northern Stars, and Jess had always been the only thing static in his life. Jess was home and here and now and always.

His eyes opened and he took her in. Jessica's hair was messy and her eyes were closed, lashes dark against her skin, and he could feel her body shudder with every breath beneath him. He closed his eyes, his mouth grazing against her heated skin as he moved down her throat. She arched her neck and her hands skated across his back, fingertips crumpling the fabric of his shirt as they pulled. He traced the edge of her collarbone with his tongue.

Roughly five thousand miles collapsed between them and on Jess's skin Rex tasted a new morning.

* * *

_My latin's a bit sketchy, but that should be something like:_

_Coitus interruptus per canis - sex interrupted by dog_

_And the French is, obviously:_

_loups-garous - werewolves  
_


	17. Good Morning and Fight Night

Disclaimer: What's with all these homies dissing on my girl?

Warnings: Language, sexual situations, violence, and sensitive themes. Ixnay is not advisable for people with strict morals or weak stomachs, young children, and women who are nursing, pregnant, or may become pregnant. Consult your doctor. (I'm kidding about the pregnant thing. Mostly.)

A/N: My beta, the fabulous Ms. BlueEyedDemonLiz, has kindly reassured me that this chapter is not nearly as bad as I think it is. At any rate, sit back, relax, and enjoy. And to all my Yankee readers out there, a very happy Thanksgiving to you! I'm grateful for all of your continued interest and your marvelous reviews. Cheers.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen: Good Morning and Fight Night

* * *

Dean woke to the smell of waffles.

_Waffles._

He could be wrong, but he was pretty sure he was in heaven.

He scrambled up to a sitting position and stretched, tumbling off of Jess's couch in the process.

"Oof," He hit the floor in a tangle of blankets. _Ow._

...Still, _waffles_.

Extricating himself from the grasp of his quilted bindings, he stumbled towards the kitchen, following the intoxicating, wafting scent.

Jess was standing at the kitchen counter, elbow-deep in a mixing bowl, surrounded by a surfeit of flour and butter and sugar and other things that were delicious when combined in mysterious ways. Pale steam was fluttering out of a waffle-iron next to her.

She smiled at him when he came in. "Morning," She said cheerfully. "Coffee's over there if you want it." She gestured with her chin.

"Thanks," he said, still staring in fascination at the plethora of baking ingredients.

"Hey," Sam greeted. He was sitting on a bar-stool at the counter-top. The bruises on his face were harsh and purple, blighting his skin. He had one of Dean's loaned button-up shirts on, the sleeve cut to accommodate his cast. The cast itself was a rather boring off-white, despite Dean's encouragements to get something a little more glow-in-the-dark. Sam's hair was darkened and tousled from a recent shower. He looked like he'd been up for a while.

Dean looked him over as he sat down on the neighboring bar stool. "When do you sleep?" He asked incredulously.

Sam shrugged and then grimaced. "I don't." He answered blandly.

Dean wasn't sure if he was joking. "Shouldn't those pills knock you out?"

Sam gave a wan smile.

Dean opened his mouth to pester him some more, when Jess suddenly set a plate of hot waffles in front of him, effectively cutting off his train of thought and any further brain functions.

_Sweet Jesus, there is a god..._

"Eat," Jess insisted to the two of them. "Don't wait on social niceties on my account. I have enough trouble making sure Rex stays fed without worrying about manners."

Sam grumbled something unintelligible but obligingly dug into his food. His eyes closed briefly and for an instant his shuttered expression melted into bliss.

Jess finished what she was doing and then sat down on the countertop, taking the not-worrying-about-manners thing seriously. She pulled her own plate towards her and dug in.

For a while, there was silence broken only by chewing and the slightly inappropriate noises of joy coming from Dean.

"So, you guys actually snuck out of the hospital?" Jess eventually asked around bites of waffle.

Dean nodded and swallowed. "Speaking of which, we're probably wanted for fraud right about now."

Sam shook his head. "Not really. I called Scottie last night and had him take care of it."

_Wait, what? What did that mean? _"What?"

Sam looked up at him. "We're in the clear." He said, spreading peanut-butter on another waffle. Dean wasn't going to judge.

Dean nodded slowly. Okay then. And that meant... "So, that whole sneaking out the hospital thing...?"

"Oh, yeah. In retrospect, completely unnecessary." Sam affirmed.

Jess snickered.

* * *

The day passed quickly. Time moved strangely at Jess's, and Dean wondered if this is how it felt to normal people, people with homes that always stayed in the same state. It was odd. The three of them did nothing in particular, and it was nearly comfortable in an unfamiliar way.

It was hard to get used to seeing his brother so closely connected to this strange girl. Though Dean thought he might be becoming desensitized to surprises -- he felt strangely detached from the whole thing. Maybe he was just exhausted. It had been a _long_ week. At any rate, things were a little off between him and Jessica. There had been tension and thinly-veiled attacks on both sides.

At the end of the day Dean found himself sitting on Jess's front porch step, staring out at the innocent houses lining the street, thinking of love and war and waffles. A while passed.

There was a dull clink as Jess set a bottle down on the step next to him. He looked up.

"What's the occasion?" He asked wryly.

Jess shrugged. "Sun's setting. Looks like we made it through another one." Her lips twitched.

Dean nodded, picking up the bottle and fingering the cold glass. "Where's Sam?"

"He's asleep." Jess sat down beside him, stretching out her jean-clad legs and shaking her hair off of her shoulders. She had her own beer bottle held loosely in her hand.

"Already?" Dean asked, surprised. Hell, he was surprised Sam was sleeping at all.

She took a swig. "I made him take his pain meds, finally. Stubborn idiot."

Dean smiled slightly. Yeah, he remembered that one. They sat quietly for a while, drinking and watching the sun slowly skulk down to the horizon.

"So," he asked in the silence, "Come here often?"

Jess snorted. "Smooth. Very smooth."

He shrugged and winked. "What can I say. I'm hopeless around beautiful women."

"If you're anything like your brother, I doubt you're ever hopeless." Jess said.

Dean paused.

"Tell me about him," he said.

"What?" Jess asked, confused.

"My brother. Tell me about him."

"He's _your_ brother." She pointed out.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. He's my brother. And I know fuck-all about his life for the last two years."

Jess hesitated. "I think that Rex should be the one to tell you about that. If he wants to. When the time is right. That kind of thing." She gestured apologetically with her beer bottle.

Dean snorted. "You might not have noticed, but he's not exactly big on the whole talking thing."

Jess smiled slightly in wry understanding. "Yeah, I noticed."

"So...?" He prompted.

She sighed, and stared off into the darkening street, not seeing it.

"Rex is a hunter. Through-and-through. And he's damn good at it, too." She began.

"You don't exactly sound thrilled."

"Oh yeah, it's just a blast that my boyfriend chases after deadly monsters, and tangos with guys who not only have guns but freaking _fangs,_ and generally tries to get himself killed on a daily basis. Fan-freaking-tastic." Jess snapped.

"It's not exactly a job with a lot of fringe benefits." Dean admitted.

Jess laughed in a way that sounded more like she was sobbing or suffocating. "Yeah. Rex gets a new scar every night and constantly gets so beat up he's practically permanently bruised. He throws himself into this ridiculous, stupid, dangerous mission of his and half the time forgets that someone out there actually gives a damn if he lives or dies."

There was something hard to swallow in Dean's throat when they talked about his brother dying.

"Hey," He said. "There are people out there that give a damn, okay? There's you." He swallowed. "And there's me. And I'm not ever going to let him die."

Jess paused, sloshing the beer in her bottle and watching the tide of dark gold climb the sides. "He thinks a lot of you, you know."

"Oh?" Dean asked. This was news to him. "Why? What's he said about me?"

Jess smirked. "He said you're cocky and arrogant and an awful flirt."

"Lies," Dean interjected, "I'm a fantastic flirt."

Jess rolled her eyes and then continued. "He thinks that you're smart and confident and capable. That you're honest. He thinks it's crazy that you were there when he woke up in that hospital. When he remembers, he thinks you're the second person he's ever known that's given a fuck. He thinks it's surprising that you're still around."

"I don't plan on going anywhere." He didn't. He wasn't. Ever.

She nodded thoughtfully. "He thinks you're going to disappear any day now."

Dean was indignant. "I'm not."

"Yeah." Jess said, unconvinced.

Something about her tone pissed him off. "Just what the hell are you trying to accuse me off here, Jess?"

"Well," She said heatedly, "You haven't exactly been present and accounted for these last few years, have you?"

"Well I damn well couldn't be, could I?" Dean snarled. "I didn't know where he was! If I had known, goddammit, I would've been there. But I didn't _know_."

"Yeah," Jess bit out. "And why didn't you?"

"What?"

"Why didn't you know where your brother was? Huh, Dean? From what I've gathered, Sam got into college, and you and your Dad broke off all contact with him. You let him go and he was gone. Written off. Ixnay on the amily-fay."

"Hey, Sam left _me._" He defended angrily. "Not the other way around."

She gave a harsh laugh. "Yeah, he left you. He freaking left. For _college._ Stanford, for chrissakes. What the hell is wrong with your family that getting into the best college in the nation qualifies for you to never talk to your brother again?"

Dean glared. "Don't talk about my family like that. You don't know us."

She flicked her hair back in an angry gesture. "Maybe not. But I can't understand why the heck someone would _disown_ their brother or their son just because he wanted to go to college. Because he wanted to make something of himself."

Sam hadn't needed to make something of himself. He already had been something.

"You know about hunting. You know that Sam made his choice. There were... we had _responsibilities._"

Jess's eyes flashed. "He was a fucking kid!"

"Don't tell me Sam was a kid. Don't you fucking tell me. I knew him then, okay? And Sam made a decision! He left."_ He left me. And I was there then, and you weren't._

"Sure, he _left_. And look what the hell happened then. Your brother was alone and hurt for two years, and you weren't there."

"You think I don't know that?" Dean demanded.

"Maybe you do now. But it doesn't change the fact he was alone. That you weren't there for him when he needed you."

Dean stood up in disgust. "Look, Jess, don't fucking talk to me about this, alright? I'm his _brother_. I'm the one who knows Sam."

"Yeah, you know him, okay. Well, _I_ know this: the Samuel Winchester I know, my Rex, wouldn't walk out on his family. He wouldn't leave them behind and never look back unless he had too. Unless there was no other choice. Unless _they_ left him."

And then Dean was pissed. How dare she? How dare this girl lecture _him_ about Sam?

"You know him? You think you know Sam? You don't know shit, Jess. _You don't know shit._ Sam is _mine_, okay? He's been mine since my mother let me hold him the day he was born, and he's been mine since my dad handed him to me in a burning house and told me to _run._ He's mine. He's my brother and my partner and I was the only fucking one who knew him. I know Sam. I know the kid better than anything. Better than fucking breathing. I was the one who watched him, who looked after him, who made sure he stayed alive. Who made sure he was fucking happy. I _raised _him. I was the one who did everything for him. I gave him _everything. _Everything._"_

Dean's chest was heaving. He was trembling slightly, eyes bright.

"_And he left."_

Fuck, this bitch didn't know Sam. She'd been his girlfriend for what, two years? Yeah. And she thought she understood Dean's brother. She wasn't the one who'd held a baby Sammy when he was sobbing and nothing could quiet him. She wasn't the one who woke up every night to the sound of his nightmares. She wasn't the one who taught him not to be afraid. The one who'd kept him fed and healthy and happy and wonderfully ignorant all throughout his childhood. The one who'd watched his back on hunts and had seen him grow up and knew _every single one_ of his dreams and fears and sorrows and wants. Who'd seen him live with nothing and become something, become everything. Fuck, Sam wasn't hers. Dean was the one who knew Sammy, knew him like hurt and salt and hopelessness.

Dean was the one who'd been left alone.

Dean's face was wet and his eyes were hot and Jess was watching him, her eyes heavy with something like compassion.

Fuck her.

Dean turned and threw his beer bottle into the street hard enough for his shoulder to burn. It shattered on the asphalt and amber liquid and russet glass scattered like roaches escaping stomping feet.

"Don't you _ever_ lecture _me_ about my brother." Dean spat.

He spun around and made for the front door, spent. A hand grabbed at his shoulder and he wrenched away and nearly took Jess's head off. She stepped back, face white.

_"Dean_. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry you think I'm a bitch and that I'm judging you and that I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. But you know what I'm not sorry about? I'm not sorry for saying what I did. Maybe I was out of line. Whatever. But it doesn't change the fact that Rex had to go through all the shit he did. And I think you're sorry as hell, and I think that nothing in the world will ever make you feel better about it. But it doesn't change the fucking facts."

Her hands were balled into fists, thin fingers bleached white with the force of her anger.

"So your brother went to college. So he wanted to make something of himself. So you're bitter and angry and hurt and life sucked for you. So what? Did you really think he was going to leave you? Forever? If half of what you believe is true, then you should damn well know better than that. This is Rex. This is Sam. You and I both know he doesn't leave the ones he loves."

"Yeah, well, he fucking did, didn't he?" Dean's voice cracked.

Jess took a step towards him angrily, quivering. "Yeah. And you didn't stop him."

Dean glared. She continued, "You might as well have told him to get out."

And Dean remembered his dad, and his dad's ultimatum, and his poker face was obviously a lot shittier than he thought it was because Jess's eyes narrowed.

"You did, didn't you? You freaking told him to leave."

"I didn't." Dean insisted. "I didn't." He _never_ would have told Sam to leave.

"But my dad did," he said softly.

Jess's face fell. "Jesus Christ, your family is messed up." Some of the anger in her eyes filtered out. In the half-light, she just looked tired.

Dean laughed roughly. "You're telling me."

"Your dad threw his son out because of a disagreement over higher education?" Jess asked, still not quite believing.

Dean shifted, clenching and unclenching his fists restlessly. "We have different priorities. Saving lives, and all that, remember?"

She snorted derisively. "Oh, right. _Hunting."_

For a while they were silent after that, both breathing harshly in the dwindling twilight. The rage in Dean fluttered. It wasn't quite dissipating, but it was mutating into something mercurial and confounding that he couldn't quite get a grasp on. He felt tired and strange. His tears were drying cold.

"You love him." Dean finally stated, meeting Jess's eyes. It wasn't a question.

Jess nodded. "So do you."

Dean looked at Jess. Really looked at her. Her eyes held a thousand fears and were oddly brave.

"I'd do anything for him," She said.

Right. Dean nodded. He still felt strange, anesthetized, and wasn't quite sure what to do. But he thought he might be starting to understand Jessica Moore.

So he did the only thing he could. He held out a hand for her to shake.

Jess looked at him appraisingly before grasping it. They both realized they were making a promise. One that neither one were willing to ever break.

Still...

Dean gripped her hand tight before she could pull away. "So, you're pissed at me and think I'm a crappy brother and you've probably thought up some really clever ways to cause me seriously bodily harm," He said. "Whatever. But you should know that this is a two-way street."

She raised an eyebrow, his hand still tight around hers. "Oh?"

Dean nodded. "You ever, _ever_ hurt him, and I will rip your intestines out through your nostrils, got it?"

Jess smiled tiredly. "Old school Egyptian. I like it."

"I have been disposing of bodies since I was eleven." He added, relinquishing her hand. Jess rubbed it absentmindedly.

"I understand."

Dean grinned, shark-like. "Good."

* * *

Rex realized that something had changed between Dean and Jess. There had been silent tension between them, dark mistrust in their eyes. Now, though, they seemed to have come to some kind of agreement. Sometimes he saw them look at each other with new understanding.

And they no longer seemed to be trying to murder one another with their sarcasm, which was a plus.


	18. Cookies and Guns

_Disclaimer: I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee._

_Warnings: Violence, sexual situations, language, and sensitive themes. You must be this tall to ride._

_A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, my lovelies. And thanks to BlueEyedDemonLiz for all the beta-ing. She rocks like a rowboat in a hurricane. In a good way._

* * *

Chapter Eighteen: Peanut-Butter Cookies and Assault Rifles

* * *

_One week later_

"Jenga?" Rex asked blankly.

Dean shrugged. "It's a game," He explained. "There's these little blocks and you stack them up into a tower and try to remove them without making the tower fall. I don't know if you ever played it. It's not exactly something compatible with the backseat."

"Right," Rex said. "It sounds... exciting."

Jess glared. "It was just a suggestion. What bright ideas have you got?"

"Are we _sure_ there's nothing on TV?" Dean interrupted.

Jess sighed. "Dean, for the last time. I'm not letting you order porn with my pay-per-view."

His brother sat back and pouted. Rex repressed a sigh of his own and ran a hand through his hair. "Look. I'm hungry. Howabout I go pick up some food, and you guys figure out what to do while I'm gone, okay?"

He could really, really use a walk.

"Okay, Rexie," Jess said, understanding in her eyes.

"Hey, why do you get to escape?" Dean whinged.

"Because I'm smarter and I have nicer hair." He dodged Dean's swipe and grinned.

"Bye. Be quick." Jess said.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean grumbled, patting his hair absent-mindedly, "Don't get lost."

"Have fun, kids," He said cheerfully, giving Jess a light kiss and waving at a pouting Dean. "Try not to kill each other."

On his way out he faintly heard Jess suggest, "Bowling?"

* * *

Palo Alto was a nice town. Tall palm trees scraped dully against the underbelly of night sky above him. Rex breathed in deeply, and the air was heavy with the faint smell of the ocean.

He walked along the sidewalk, enjoying his freedom. He loved Jess. And Dean... well, he didn't really know what to say about Dean, except that there was a strange dread that bubbled deep inside of him when he thought about losing him that Rex couldn't quite explain. And the last week at Jess's had been nothing but slow healing and warmth and baked goods and love and family and a hundred other things he had only ever known through longing and want. It had felt like _home_.

But he was used to be on his own. He was used to being _alone. _And he was used to moving. He got restless staying in one place for too long. It was good to take a minute for himself.

He'd picked up burgers at a nice-enough looking place that had had an irresistible smell drifting out of its doors. He was grateful that he had been smart enough not to ask Jess and Dean what they wanted for dinner. He did _not_ need to listen to that argument.

The night was quiet. Peaceful. He breathed in slowly. And then he realized.

Somebody was following him.

Rex kept going at an casual pace, giving no sign to his stalker that he was on to them. He turned a corner and darted into an alley, flattening himself against a wall. He let the plastic bag of fast food drop noiselessly to the ground.

There was a hairsbreadth of silence, and then a shadowy figure passed the mouth of the alley, stopping and looking around in confusion, wondering where its prey had gone.

Rex pounced.

He stepped out of the alley quickly, delivering an arcing kick his stalker's head that snapped back out into a strike to the back of the knees before the man could turn around. As Creepy Stalker Dude crumpled Rex sliced his hand down into the crook of his neck and kneed him hard in the kidney. The man struggled as he went down, aiming an elbow at Rex.

He shifted easily to avoid the blow and fisted his hands in the back of the creep's shirt, hauling him up a few inches before slamming him back down face-first to the sidewalk. He heaved the stunned man up and spun him around, using their momentum to smash him into the wall.

Before the man could fight back there was a cold click as Rex drew the hammer back on his gun, pressing the barrel hard into the back of Creepy Stalker Dude's head. He used his weight to keep the man pinned to the wall.

"Who the hell are you?" he hissed right in the man's ear.

"_Jesus_, Sammy, it's me." Stalker Dude gasped, voice muffled against the bricks.

Rex tensed. "What?"

"It's your dad!"

Rex took a step back and spun the man around in one fluid motion, keeping his gun level. He let Creepy Stalker Dude's back hit the wall hard, knocking the breath out of the guy. He pressed the cast on his broken arm into the man's throat.

"One more time," Rex said quietly, "For the cheap seats."

"Sam! I'm your father! Holy _hell_, kid."

Rex hesitated. Creepy Stalker Dude's eyes were wide and insistent and confused. Where had he seen that look before?

"Oh, Christ." he growled, "Another one."

"Sam..." Stalker Dude began. Rex drove the plaster-of-Paris harder into the man's skin, pressing the gun deeper into his scalp.

"Now, exactly why the hell do you expect me to believe you?" He purred.

Stalker Dude gave a hoarse laugh. "Believe me? Fuck, Sammy. Call Dean."

Huh. Good idea.

He gave the man a measured look before stepping back and releasing him abruptly. Rex's latest long-lost family member slid down the brick wall, gasping for breath.

Rex kept the gun trained on Creepy Dude as he pulled out his cell. He hit speed-dial, eyes never leaving his target, body tensed.

"_Sam?" _Dean's voice called, metallic and rough through the speakers. Rex pressed speakerphone and thrust the cell in Creepy Stalker Dude's general direction, gesturing wordlessly.

"Dean?" The stranger said hesitantly. "It's me."

"_**Dad?**_**" **came Dean's incredulous voice. "_Wha--"_

Rex pulled the phone back and barked, "Little complication, Dean. If I'm not there in twenty minutes, something's wrong." He snapped the phone shut amidst Dean's protests.

Stalker Dude looked up at him. "Satisfie--"

His question turned to spluttering as Rex gave him a face-full of holy water.

The man glared up at him, soaked.

"Sorry," Rex shrugged. "Nothing personal."

He glanced at the deposited bag of fast food. Sometime during the struggle it had been kicked over, landing in a litter-filled puddle. The bag was slowly absorbing the filthy water.

Rex sighed.

"You," he said, pulling out a silver knife and turning to the Creepy Stalker Dude That Was Apparently His Dad, "Owe me some burgers."

The man stared.

"Hand," Rex demanded, gesturing with the knife. John Winchester paused, before slowly extending his left hand, palm up.

"Relax," Rex gave him a chilly smile, "this won't hurt a bit."

Casually, he made a small cut on the fleshy pad below John's thumb. Blood welled up slowly, bright red and human. John didn't flinch.

"Christo," Rex murmured. He liked to triple-check things.

There was no reaction from the elder Winchester, other than to raise one eyebrow. Water still dripped sluggishly down his face, pooling together into tiny droplets that sparkled in the starlight.

"You done?" John asked, staring at him appraisingly. Whatever. Rex didn't give a damn what he was seeing.

"Yep. You pass. Congratulations." He said flippantly. He didn't care. Really. He didn't care.

"Great," John said flatly, still staring at Rex. He was careful not to move under the scrutiny, keeping his expression blank. Controlled. Bored. _He didn't fucking care._

There was a heavy pause.

"Sam..." John began, before stopping. John's expressions were veiled and fleeting, and he was damn hard to read. But Rex thought he looked a little lost. Made sense, he supposed. From what Dean had said, Rex gathered that he and his dad hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms.

Rex could faintly make out a flurry of thoughts behind John's guarded eyes. Finally, he saw resolve settle in like a mask over John's face as he came to what Rex assumed was a decision. "I got Dean's messages. I know about what happened -- the coma and the amnesia. Europe. The skin-walker and the semi-truck."

Rex nodded. "Good for you."

John's gaze tightened. "What?"

"Fantastic. You're all up to speed. Saves me a lot of talking." Still didn't care. Didn't fucking care. Rex glanced at his nails disinterestedly. He wasn't even going to look at him. _Don't look at him._

John hesitated again, and Rex watched him reassess the situation out of the corner of his eye. _Don't look at him._

"Sammy, we're going to fix this, okay?" John said in what Rex guessed was his reassuring voice. _Don't. Don't. Don't._

"Oh, well, great. That's good then." _Don't look at him. Don't be stupid. Don't say anything. Don't loose control. You don't care._

"Sam--" John started again, a little impatiently.

_Don't._

Rex did.

He cut John off, voice biting. "I mean, now that you're here, things are just going to be fine and dandy I suppose. You're going to _fix_ everything. Daddy's gonna swoop in and save the day, huh?"

He looked up, glaring at John, covering his hurt with layer upon layer of amused disdain. Distant disregard. Not anger. He wasn't _angry_. Anger was for people who cared.

"About time though, isn't it? I mean, where ya _been_, John?" Okay. Maybe he was a little angry.

He waved his hand around, smiling harshly. "'Cause, well, it sure as hell ain't been _here_, has it? Oh, but I'm sure you've been doing something much more important, right? Well, I'm just so _grateful_ the great John Winchester could find time in his busy schedule to come and _save me._ I'm glad you've got it _all under control. _Well, _fuck you." _

Yep, he was angry.

_John_ sure as hell looked angry. "That's enough, Sam," He snapped.

Rex laughed and he shuddered as his voice broke. "Oh now, _Dad_, I don't think that's _near_ enough." His wit dissolved into wrath. Who the hell did this guy think he was? "You piece of shi--"

"Quiet!" John snapped, eyes filled with nothing Rex could identify except rage. John's hands were crumpled into fists. Rex wondered if his dad was going to try hitting him.

Oh, but Rex wasn't done. He wasn't near done. He had two years of shit behind him, and he was determined John Winchester would get a little of it back. Besides..."_Quiet_? Is that an _order_?"

Something flicked across John's face and Rex almost caught it before it was gone. "It _is_, isn't it? You're _ordering_ me. Now, that's funny." His humorless smile deepened. Ordering him? Rex didn't _do_ orders. Not even a little bit.

"I'm your father, kid," John barked.

"Right. Of course. And father knows best, I suppose."

_Father knows best._ Rex couldn't remember his father. But he could remember being alone and hurting and dying and crying for his daddy before. And he couldn't always remember what was right in the world, but he could remember that that was _wrong wrong wrong._ And it wasn't fucking _best_.

Rex snapped himself out his thoughts and stared at John, who was looking at him like he didn't know what to do. He watched John's throat move as he swallowed hard and struggled to gain control.

"Okay, Sammy, I understand that this is hard. You're hurt and..." _And fucked-up, right?_ Rex supplied in his own head. John never got a chance to finish what he would've said, though, as Rex cut him off.

"You _understand_?" He hissed. "_You understand? _Well that's a damn miracle, isn't it, considering you've been here about, oh, ten minutes. Hell, you must have fucking _God _himself on speed-dial, because even _I _don't understand. And it's been my entire damn life."

Rex's breathing was violent. His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides, nails carving up the skin of his palms.

_Okay, see why "don't" was a good idea?_ He chastised himself. _Calm the fuck down._

Calm down. Right. He needed to calm down. This wasn't the time to be acting like a child. His eyes were smoldering.

_Calm down._

Okay, calm down, got it.

He was calm. He didn't care.

"Right," He said, voice tight and controlled. Gradually the coiled emotions in it smoothed out into the detached, robotic tone he'd perfected over the years. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. We should really meet up with Dean before he gets restless and blows up the entire city. Shall we?"

John looked taken aback by the abrupt turn-about. Actually, he looked taken aback by the whole night. Whatever.

Rex turned and headed towards Jess's, not bothering to look back.

* * *

Dean stared at the phone in his hand, the screen glowing dully at him. _Call ended._

Did the little shit just hang up on him?

"What's going on?" Jess asked. He turned and looked at her. She was sitting on the couch, fingers twisted in the corduroy, gazing at him with wide apprehensive eyes.

"Sam," He said simply, snapping the phone shut.

"What happened? Is he alright?" Jess demanded fearfully.

"I don't know," Dean said, staring at his cell-phone. _His dad..._

"Dean!" Jess snapped, and he ground back to earth with a shuddering halt. "_What is going on?"_

He shook himself. "Sam called. And then my dad was on the phone."

"Your dad?" She questioned, surprised.

He nodded. "Yeah. Something's up. Sam said if he wasn't back in twenty minutes then shit's gone down."

He glanced at the clock. 7:30. At 7:45 Dean was going to go find his brother. Heads would roll.

"So...?" Jess asked, and he realized she was looking for guidance. From him.

"So we wait," Dean said. The plastic of the cell-phone was warming in his hands. He pocketed it.

"Alright," She nodded, then stood up. She hovered for a moment, lost. "I'm going to go... bake something."

Jess ran a nervous hand through her blonde hair as she walked to the kitchen. She flashed Dean a shaky smile that didn't reach her eyes. He nodded and watched her go, before studying the clock again. 7:32.

"Jess!" He called out, heading towards the font door. "I'm going out to my car. I'll be back in five."

"Alright," She shouted back. There was the sound of pans clinking.

Dean quickly made his way to the Impala, unlocking the trunk. He stared at his choices for a moment, calculating. Finally he selected two hand-guns and a few clips of silver bullets, his favorite sawed-off and some rock-salt, and a long, wickedly curved knife that glittered sharply in the faint light. He grabbed a bottle of holy water to be on the safe side, wishing that Sam had been just a little more informative. It'd be nice to know what he was up against. Or if he was up against anything. Or what the hell was going on.

Dean went back inside and settled in on Jess's couch for the wait. He shifted restlessly, staring at the clock, attempting to melt it with his gaze. 7:40.

"Hey," Jess called from the doorway. Dean grunted, eyes not leaving the clock. 7:42.

"Peanut-butter cookies. You know you want some." She attempted after a pause, when it became apparent that Dean was focusing on inflicting severe harm on inanimate objects.

He glanced at her, then did a double-take. In one hand she was balancing a plate of cookies.

"What the hell?" He exclaimed.

In the other hand she was holding an AK-47.

"I made peanut-butter cookies. Well, I didn't make them now, that would be silly, it's only been like five minutes. I'm good but I'm not that good. But they're only a day or so old. They should be good. Don't you like peanut-butter?" She explained, setting the plate down on the coffee table.

"Not the cookies, Jess! The big-ass gun you're holding!"

"Oh, right. Rex gave it to me for emergencies." She set the gun down next to the cookies, carefully.

Dean shook his head. Jesus Christ. One way or another, his little brother was going to be the death of him.

"Okay, well, try not to kill anybody with that thing. At least not _me_." He gave her a wary side-long look.

Jess rolled her eyes, grabbing a cookie. "Relax. Rex taught me how to shoot _ages_ ago."

"Of course he did. Is there anything he _didn't_ tell you?" Dean growled in exasperation, poking a few select cookies experimentally to test for softness. He didn't stop looking at the clock. 7:44.

"Well," Jess began, eyes mischievous.

Dean held up a hand. "I don't want to know."

She opened her mouth to retort, when Dean's hand jerked forward, demanding silence. He drew the hand back to his face, curling three of his fingers down and pressing the remaining one to his lips. _Quiet_.

Jess froze. Slowly, she reached for the AK-47. Dean drew his own gun, flicking the safety off. He stood silently, giving the clock one last look. 7:45.

The sound of a key turning in the front doorknob echoed like a gunshot. Dean ghosted across the room to the doorway and flattened himself against the wall, gun pointed towards the ceiling. Jess drew the rifle towards her and held it ready, aiming the barrel down to the floor. The weapon trembled slightly in her hands. She stared at the door.

It opened slowly, hinges squeaking in protest.

"Honey, I'm home," Sam's voice called out as the door swung open all the way.

Dean sprang out in front of him, gun raised. Sam just cocked an eyebrow.

"Put that away before you hurt someone, will ya?" He sounded tense. Dean lowered his gun, appraising his little brother. Sam stepped inside. He glanced around the room and smiled reassuringly at his girlfriend when his eyes came to rest on her.

"Hey, Jessie, it's okay. Put the gun down." Sam walked up to Jessica, grabbing the AK from her unresisting hands and disassembling it rapidly. He set the dismantled rifle on the table and grabbed one of her hands in his, squeezing it gently.

Dean watched them in his peripheral vision, but he was much more interested in who was lingering in the doorway.

"Hey, Dad," He said tightly. "Long time no see."

"Dean," John greeted, nodding his head. His eyes fastened on the handgun still held loosely in his son's hands. Dean met his gaze easily, and didn't holster his gun.

With his free hand he reached into his jacket pocket and grabbed the bottle of holy water. Popping the lid off with his thumb as he pulled it out from beneath his jacket, he snapped his wrist and sent an arc of clear water into his father's face.

John squinted his eyes as the water hit him but there was no sizzling, hissing, or other reactions typical of a pissed-off demon. His dad scrubbed his wet skin in annoyance, coughing. Water was clumping his hair together and dripping down his face.

"_Goddammit_, Dean," He glowered. Dean shrugged. There was a low laugh behind him, and Sam appeared at his shoulder, grinning.

"I already did that, you know," Sam explained cheerily.

"Oh," Dean said. "Sorry, Dad." _Not really. _John continued to glare at the two brothers in irritation.

"Close the door already, wouldja?" Jess griped from the couch. "Heating and air-conditioning isn't exactly cheap, you know."

John obliged. Dean watched him look questioningly at the strip of duct-tape on the ground beneath the door.

"There's salt under it," He explained, as Sam didn't seem to be forth-coming in an answer, though he had been the one to explain it to Dean a few days ago. "The duct-tape just keeps it from being kicked around and lessons the amount of times it needs to be replaced."

"People ask less stupid questions, too," Jess added.

John nodded in understanding. "Smart."

"Yep." Sam agreed, voice aloof.

They stood uncomfortably for a moment, before Sam turned without preamble and strode towards to the couch to sit next to Jess, sliding against her and fitting nicely at her side. Dean followed quickly, and John trailed behind.

Dean settled on the couch, shoving Sam over a bit. John sat down on the arm-chair. He leaned forward towards the three of them, resting his elbows on his knees.

"So," Jess demanded before he could speak, "Your Rex... Sam's father?"

John nodded. "Yes."

"Fantastic," Jess said coolly at the confirmation. In a swift movement she grabbed her tumbler off of the table and sent its contents flying upwards with a jerk of her hand, drenching John in cold water.

John gave a startled yelp. Beside Dean, Sam let out a surprised, choking laugh, breath trembling against Dean's skin.

"_God -- Fuck_ -- Dammit, they already tested me!" His dad seethed, half-rising out of his chair and mopping his face angrily.

Jess shrugged. "It wasn't holy water."

John blinked in confusion. Or to get water out of his eyes. Dean really couldn't tell. He could feel a smile forming on his lips that he quickly smothered.

"Then what the hell was that for?" John demanded in outraged confusion.

"Well, Mr. Winchester," Jess's cheeks were pink. "Frankly, I just don't like you very much."

Sam gave a hollow laugh. Dean's skin prickled at the sound.


	19. Conversations and Conversations

**Disclaimer: When I was just a baby, my mama told me, "Son, always be a good boy – don't ever play with guns." **

**Warnings: Profanity, violence, sexual situations, sensitive themes. Not necessarily in that order. Also, nothing happens in this chapter. But it's good that I posted something, right? . . . Right?  
**

**A/N: Oh my god! An update! It's like in those movies where there's a solar eclipse and all the peasants freak out. It's a strange thing never seen before. The world must be ending! Everybody panic!**

**So, Ixnay's had its first birthday. How did that happen? That's amazing, that is. Can't even wrap my head around it. Over a year. Over a year! Thanks so much for all of your support, I am totally, absolutely, completely _thrilled_ that you all have enjoyed this little thing of mine. (Geez, that sounds dirty, doesn't it? Ahem. Anyways. . .) Thanks so much for sticking with me (Even when I take ages and ages and ages to sodding update). Your reviews are awesome, you're awesome, and you should feel awesome. I'm so sorry for the wait.  
**

**And thanks to nexus432 (and everyone else who reviewed/pm'd me) for getting my ass in gear, you can claim full responsibility for this update. 3 **

**

* * *

**_Then – _

On the way to Stanford, Sam gets in an accident that causes him to have severe Hollywood Amnesia, losing all of his memories except for those of hunting. His only clue – a train ticket in his pocket from Rexford, Kansas – leads him to search the Mid-west for any family he may have and to start going by the name "Rex." His search proves fruitless, and after a hard month in the US he decides to get the hell out of dodge, catching the first plane he can get – which happens to be to London.

For the next two years "Rex" hunts assorted fugly bastards across Europe. During this time, he meets and falls in love with Jessica Moore in Paris. He also gets a tattoo, takes up smoking, becomes the reigning champ of snark, and generally gets the ever-loving snot beat out of him on a daily basis in interesting and creative ways. Eventually, he decides to go back to the states to visit Jess, but not before getting busted up by a pack of vampires and an ogre, resulting in a broken arm. His contacts get him a car (a sweet-ass '69 Camaro) and assorted weapons. He ends up in Lovette, Nevada, where he discovers some sort of monster is terrorizing the town. Rex/Sam uses his amazing powers of deduction to decide that said monster is a skin-walker, a human who can turn into an animal of their choosing at will.

Meanwhile, Dean and John Winchester are also in Lovette, Nevada, hunting the very same skin-walker. John, however, soon leaves in order to pursue a lead on The Demon. Dean goes out into the desert to hunt the skin-walker, which turns out to be a tiger, and ends up knocked unconscious and wounded. Luckily for him, there's a little deus ex Rex as his long-lost little brother shows up at the eleventh hour and kicks some kitty-cat ass (and also gets his ass kicked). Dean wakes up, and is severely surprised to see his brother – who he had thought was studying at Stanford – hooded in leather and sporting a rather nice semi-automatic. Rex/Sam and Dean go through the whole family reunion thing, which is severely lacking in warm fuzzy moments, at least at first. Rex/Sam only mostly believes Dean, but agrees to tag along and see what happens.

They both head towards Rex/Sam's original destination – Stanford, to see Jessica – and on the way there Rex/Sam challenges Dean to a car race. Rex/Sam wins, but at the finish line is blind-sided by a curiously driver-less semi-truck. We later get a brief shot of a mysterious figure lingering over Rex/Sam's crash-site. Meanwhile, when Rex/Sam wakes up at the hospital with Dean by his side, he's a little more convinced of their alleged brotherly bond. All the while, Dean has been attempting to contact John, but gets only radio silence. Dean also finds that a journal of Rex/Sam's has survived the crash, unlike his armament and beautiful car, but decides to not tell his brother that he has the journal. Instead, he intends to read it himself and find out more of his brother's mysterious past – as soon as he figures out how to open it, that is.

Bruised but alive and still snarky, the two brothers continue to Jessica's, learning a bit more about each other on the way. Jessica and Rex/Sam are positively dripping with love; however, Jess and Dean are a bit leery of each other. They settle their differences when they acknowledge one another's respective care for Sam. After a week hanging out at Jessica's, Rex/Sam goes out to pick up some dinner, where he notices someone tailing him. After a brief fight in which Rex/Sam subdues his stalker, said stalker claims to be none other than John Winchester. Rex/Sam verifies that the man isn't a monster in disguise, but is still more than a little angry at his absentee father. John and Rex/Sam head back to Jessica's, where John gets a few more face-fulls of water, courtesy of a suspicious brother and a pissed-off girlfriend. Whew. And here we are.

* * *

_Now – _

_Chapter Nineteen: Conversations and More Conversations_

_

* * *

_"I'll, uh, get you a towel," Jessica stuttered as John glared at her, water dripping down his face. Rex shifted slightly, angling his body between his girlfriend and John's angry gaze.

Jessica slipped out into the kitchen, cheeks flushed, leaving the Winchester family alone.

"Where have you been?" Rex asked quietly, staring evenly at John.

John met his gaze. "I was chasing a lead on the demon."

"The one that killed my mother?" Rex asked.

John nodded. "Yeah, kiddo."

Rex flinched lightly at the endearment, and he felt Dean shift next to him.

"Why didn't you come sooner?" Dean spoke up, voice tensely quiet.

John's eyes flicked to him. "Like I said, Dean, I was hunting the demon."

"Sam was hurt," Dean said, voice flat. "Sam was hurt and you didn't come. He's. . . _jesus, _dad."

"I knew you were in control of the situation," John said.

Dean gaped. "You knew I was. . . you think I had any _control_ over this? Dammit, dad. You should've come. Sam needed you, and you should've come."

Rex could see John's jaw clenching tightly. "This was a once-in-a-lifetime lead, Dean. I had to make a decision."

Dean's hands balled into fists. "Goddammit, dad, you put the demon over Sam. You-"

"It's okay," Rex cut him off quietly.

The two elder Winchesters froze, turning slowly to stare at Rex.

He shrugged.

"It's okay. I get it. Hunting takes priority over things like this."

John watched him appraisingly.

"You wouldn't have said that two years ago," He said slowly.

"Yeah, well, I don't think I'm the same person I was two years ago. I'm not some fucking kid. I'm not selfish enough to think I'm more important than stopping a demon." Rex said calmly. "Maybe my priorities are different than the Sam you knew. But I've lived the last two years dedicating my life to hunting. So I understand. There's nothing more important than this."

"No," Dean said angrily. He stood up. "No, that's not right. This isn't about being selfish or any of that crap. This is about _family_."

"And you, dad," He spun around to face John. "_You_ taught me that family was the most important thing. That it was all we've got. And that we have to put it before _anything_ else. Even hunting."

"Sammy," He said, turning back around to Rex and crouching in front of him. He hesitated a moment, than rested a hand firmly on Rex's shoulder. "There isn't a demon on hell or earth that's more important than you. Than us. Than this family. Understand?"

Rex sat quietly beneath Dean's touch, thinking. Huh. This was different. The fervor in Dean's tone surprised him. He glanced up and met Dean's sharp green eyes.

Rex shrugged, Dean's hand shifting on his shoulder.

Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. He stared at Rex with determination but didn't say anything else, sitting back down on the couch.

John was watching the two silently.

"Dad? Anything you wanna add?" Dean asked, voice holding just the hint of a challenge.

John looked at him evenly. Eventually, he said, "I made a decision. I expect you boys to respect that."

In the corner of his vision Rex could see Dean's muscles stiffen as he dug his fingernails into his palms.

"Um" Jess spoke up from the door. An orange dish-cloth was twisted in her hands. "Hey. Got that towel. Yeah. . . Who wants scones?"

* * *

"So, Jess said hesitantly. "The couch is taken, but I can set something up on the floor for you. . ."

"I'll take the floor," Dean said. "You can have the couch, dad."

Rex glanced between the two. The tension was still denser than lead, but Dean seemed more than willing to sleep on the floor for his dad. _Weird._

John shook his head, though. "No, it's fine, Dean. Floor's closer to the door anyway."

"Is that relevant?" Rex asked, curiously.

"Closer to the door means closer to the most-obvious entrance of attack, Sam," Dean explained.

"And you really want to be closer to an attack?" Rex asked, eyebrow raised.

John looked at him. "It's my job, kid."

He turned and walked out.

Rex blinked. He turned to Dean and asked, "And what job would that be?"

Dean gave him a tight, lopsided smile. "He's our dad, Sammy."

* * *

Once Jess and Sam were safely sequestered in their own little world, Dean slipped out the door after his dad.

He squinted in the sudden darkness of the night, the stars barely visible above the glow of the city. After a few seconds his pupils adjusted and he spotted the yellow light coming from the inside of the Impala.

He smirked a little. Figures. His dad did have a spare key to the car, after all.

Dean walked over, tugging open the passenger side door and sliding onto the bench seat.

Inside the car, Johnny Cash lamented quietly about a man he once shot in Reno. His dad was holding a bottle of Jack loosely by its neck, his other hand tapping out a beat on the steering wheel.

He tilted his head back as he took a swig, throat pulsing slightly in the dull moonlight.

"Hey," Dean said quietly. He stared out the window at the quiet street, breath coating the glass lightly in silver.

"Hey, kid," John answered, sounding tired. He held the bottle out to Dean silently, and Dean knocked back a shot. The whiskey burned hot and sharp across his tongue and all the way down his throat.

"Where'd this tape come from, anyway?" Dean asked suspiciously after a moment, pretty sure he hadn't had any Cash cassettes. By now Johnny was singing about places dark as dungeons where the rain never fell.

John only smirked, taking the Jack back from Dean's unresisting grip.

"You were right, you know," John said after a while in silence, Dean watching the pulse of his breath ebb and flow in fog on the glass. "When you said about this family being more important than the hunt."

Dean shrugged but didn't say anything.

"I forget that, sometimes," John continued. "I lose sight of what's really important. I've lost sight of that more and more, lately."

_Lately_. . . Dean thought. _Lately, that Sam's been gone. _

He wondered how he was supposed to feel, hearing that.

Dean gestured for the whiskey back and took another shot. Johnny Cash sang about getting high on cocaine and shooting a bad bitch down.

_But Sam was back now._

"What are we going to do, Dad?" Dean asked. "I mean, with Sam and his memory. I can't fix this. I don't know how."

He laughed hollowly. "Jesus Christ, Sam was supposed to be _safe_ and some fucking accident -"

"Was it?" John interrupted, eyes dark and shiny in the dim light. "The doctors didn't know what caused the amnesia, right?"

"He was hit by a car. . ." Dean began hesitantly.

"It _looked_ like he was hit by a car." John corrected. "The hospital _assumed_ he was hit by a car. But you and me both know, kid, that injuries aren't always what they seem to be."

"You're saying something supernatural caused Sam's memory loss?" Dean surmised. He wondered casually, certainly not for the first time in his life, where the line was drawn at paranoia.

"I'm saying it's a possibility. Something we should look into." John said. He ran his fingers down the smooth glass curves of the bottle of Jack.

"Shit," Dean breathed. "What would do that? What _could _do that?"

John shrugged. "We'll find out."

Dean closed his eyes briefly, letting his head fall back against the top of the seat.

"Sam's different, now," He said after awhile. "He's so. . . jaded. I think something happened to him. Something bad. Hell, a lot of somethings probably happened to him. He was on his own. In fucking _Europe._"

He dragged his fingers across the cool seats of the Impala, feeling his dad's eyes on him.

"He's got this whole life and I don't know about it. And all he cares about now is hunting. It's so. . . it's so un-Sammy. But he's damn good at it, you know? Christ, dad, he's better than all the other hunters I've ever come across. He's almost better than me. And I know he should be able to take care of himself just fine but. . . Half the time it seems like he's got some freakin' deathwish. There's something so. . . messed up with him. And I just. . . I don't know what to do."

"We'll fix him, Dean," John said, voice low.

"See dad, that's the thing. I'm not even sure what's wrong with him," Dean sighed. "Or if he wants to be fixed."

His dad took another mouthful of alcohol, and Johnny Cash sang roughly about a woman crying over his bones.

* * *

Dean stared at Jessica's living room ceiling in the darkness, halogen mirages swimming across the empty surface. His dad's easy breathing filled the silence from the floor a few feet away.

Dean sighed and rolled into sitting, the floor cool beneath his bare feet. He crept quietly towards the door.

His dad shifted, the sound of his sleeping breath halting.

"I'm just going to get some air," Dean assured in a whisper. John's silence was as good as permission, and Dean quietly opened the front door, creaking on un-oiled hinges, and slipped out.

The air was abruptly chilly, the world outside softly blue in the nighttime. He sat down on Jessica's front step, elbows on knees, eyes slowly adjusting to the dim.

He shivered slightly, wishing fruitlessly for his jacket, curling his toes on the rough cold concrete. He thought about his dad and his brother and what the hell he was going to do with his life, the night acquiescing happily to his brooding.

"I'd offer you a cigarette, but you'd probably just yell at me. Still, you look like you could use one."

Dean craned his neck around to look up at Sam, standing quietly behind him.

"Hey."

"Hey," Sam answered easily, handing Dean his jacket. "It's bloody cold out."

"That's what happens when it's night, Sammy. The sun sets, so it gets all dark and the temperature drops." Still, Dean shrugged on his jacket. "And this is America. Things are only bloody when we stab them."

Sam snorted. "Hey, big fan of mediterranean weather here. Besides, we're in California, it should be warm, shouldn't it? And don't mock my profanity."

"_Profanity_. Sheesh. That isn't profanity. I can_ show_ you profanity -"

"Thanks, but I'll pass." Sam interrupted. He lowered himself into sitting next to Dean, drawing in a deep breath and surveying the night. "So, why exactly are you out here brooding? Besides the obvious, that is."

"I'm not _brooding_," Dean sulked. "Brooding is something people like _you_ do, Sam. I, on the other hand, don't brood."

Sam scoffed. "People like me? What, smart-assed ex-patriate amnesiac hunters of evil? Are there a lot of us, then?"

"Don't think I'm going to forget you just admitted to being a smart-ass," Dean wagged a finger. "Cos I'm not."

"Fair enough," Sam shrugged. "But you _are_ brooding."

"Am not," Dean disagreed.

"Are too."

"How'd you know I was out here, anyway?" Dean asked.

"Maybe I just wanted some fresh air. And stop changing the subject." Sam said.

"_You _stop changing the subject," Dean countered.

"I – what? That doesn't even make any sense."

"Your _face_ doesn't make sense."

"You're impossible."

"Your—"

"Don't. Just, don't." Sam shook his head. "And you haven't gotten me off track completely. What's wrong?"

Dean sighed. "What does it matter?"

Sam shot him a strange look. "Um, isn't that how this whole family thing works? Correct me if I'm wrong. You wander out in the middle of the night looking like someone shot your puppy, I pester you until you tell me what's wrong, we work together to fix whatever it is. Right?"

Dean laughed roughly. "What are we, the Cleavers? I mean, yeah, Sammy, I guess that's all technically right, but when you put it like _that_. . ."

Sam sighed, craning his head up to look at the dark sky. "Look, Dean. You don't have to tell me, okay? But. . . I'm trying here. I want to help you. You look like. . . you look like something's wrong, and I think you should. . . talk about it. I guess. Dean, I don't really expect some big revelation or for us to uncover the root of all your problems or whatever. I just thought that maybe we could just talk. Just talk. Like brothers."

"Now, there's the Sammy I know." Dean said softly. "Trying to get me to _talk_. About my _feelings."_

He looked up at the sharply white moon, phosphorescing softly in the blackened sky. His fingernails scraped against the concrete a little.

"It fucking hurts," Sam said abruptly.

". . . What?" Dean asked, taken aback.

"You obviously have some serious problems with talking about stuff. Okay, I get it. So I figured I might as well go first. Tell you a little something about. . . me. Then maybe you'll tell me the truth. Quid pro quo, and all that shit." Sam explained quietly. "So, what I said was, _it fucking hurts."_

"My dad. Our dad. Showing up here. Knowing he was out _there_, when I needed him with me. Knowing he didn't even realize I was missing. And now. . . and now, the way he doesn't even look at me like I'm his son." Sam looked away. "But what do I know about fathers and sons, anyway? But this. . . all I know is it fucking hurts."

"So there," Sam said. "I don't usually tell people when things hurt. I guess I probably learned that from you, huh? But at any rate, I've spilt my guts. Your turn."

Dean looked at his brother quietly.

"I'm sorry, you know," He said.

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "I think I do know that. And it's not. . . it's not really your fault, Dean."

Dean was inclined to disagree, but he let the matter drop in favour of pointing out, "It's not really Dad's fault, either."

Sam's smile twisted slightly, bitterly.

"He's just doing the best he can, Sam."

Sam turned to look at him, brow drawn and eyes melancholy.

"Is that good enough?" He asked quietly. "Was that ever good enough?"

Dean shrugged.

"It is for me," He lied.

Sam sighed again, turning away.

"Yeah, okay. It's your turn, by the way," He reminded Dean.

"I'm just. . ." Dean hesitated, but Sam looked at him expectantly. "All those things you just said, about it hurting and all? Yeah, me too."

"And I feel like. . . like I've _failed_. I _did_ fail. I fucked-up, Sammy. I feel like shit because you got hurt and I wasn't there for you."

_Because my dad wasn't there for me._

"It's like someone kicked me in the stomach." Dean had been kicked in the stomach quite literally before, more than once, been down on his knees with sharp tears in his eyes from the shock and pain of a well-placed hit that just managed to slip past his defenses, choking and nearly vomiting. Barely was so much worse. "It's my job to _protect you_, Sam, and I. Fucking. Failed."

Guilt made his throat ache and his stomach coil into knots. He closed his eyes, shutting out the image of the darkened street but not the feeling of Sam's eyes burning holes into him.

"Dean. . ." Sam started. Dean said nothing more, listening to his own rough breathing.

And then Sam was up and moving.

There was a hand on his shoulder, the contact warm. Dean blinked his eyes open to see Sam kneeling in front of him, eyes searching his face, worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

"Dean. . . you didn't. . . it wasn't. . ." He stumbled over the words, and then hesitantly his arms went up around Dean, tugging him into a hug.

Dean froze, and then the terribly familiar feeling of Sam's warmth and Sam's heartbeat washed over him, and _God_, he hadn't realized he'd missed this so much. He hugged his little brother tightly.

"It's not your fault," Sam whispered, and yeah, alright, but it _was,_ and Dean had to disagree because _Sam had been hurt_ and he hadn't _been there_ and now his brother was _broken _and. . .

"It's okay," Sam said. And maybe it would be.

* * *

The floor was hard, but John had slept on a hell of a lot worse. He woke up quietly when his eldest son crept outside, letting him go without a word.

A while passed, and he drifted in an almost-sleep. Then, there were cat-like footsteps resonating across the floor to where he lay, and he stirred.

He let Sam go by, pretending to be asleep. But he was pretty sure Sam was only pretending to fall for it.

Eventually, both of his boys came back inside near silently, giving him quiet good-nights.

Hours later, morning slipped past the Venetian blinds in gray and silver, the dawn starkly clouded. John woke with it, glancing over to the couch and seeing Dean tangled in his blankets, hair tousled against his pillow and mouth hanging open.

He felt his lips twitch in a half-smile and silently rose to his feet.

Letting Dean sleep, he made his way to the Moore girl's kitchen. She had extended an open-invitation to her supplies last night, and John intended to take full advantage of her coffee maker.

The Moore girl. _Jessica. _Sam's girlfriend, and wasn't that _weird?_

He set up the machine and then rested the heels of his hands on the counter-top, breathing in the rich smell of brewing coffee, listening to the familiar dribble.

"Good morning."

He turned, and inclined his head to the blonde girl in flannel pants standing in the doorway. "Morning."

"How do you like your eggs?" Jess asked, opening up a cupboard and pulling out a large black skillet. "Figured I'd make something with protein, god knows it can be hard enough to get Rex to eat, might as well give him something substantial right from the start. That man just doesn't appreciate food."

John shrugged. "Over-easy."

"Ah," Jess said, pulling open the fridge. "I would've figured you for a hard-boiled kind of guy, myself."

He made a non-commital noise, watching her move about the kitchen. "Sam still asleep?"

She laughed not quite happily. "Not for long, I'd wager, he's been refusing to take his pills. God, sometimes I think being a hunter's girlfriend must be the hardest job. . . I look at my friends, and all they're worrying about is drunken sorority girls coming onto their boyfriends. Even those girls who date army guys. . . at least they know the only thing that's going to kill their boyfriend is something human."

John poured himself a cup of coffee, letting it sit hot in his hands, listening and watching.

Jess cracked an egg and it sizzled as it hit the skillet. "Did your wife have it this hard, Mr. Winchester?"

He started slightly. "I wasn't a hunter back then."

"Mm," Jess said, nudging the edge of the egg with a spatula. "What happened to her, if you don't mind me asking?"

John did mind, quite a lot, actually. He paused, considering what to tell this girl.

"She was killed. By a demon." He said flatly.

"Oh," Jess said. She left the stove to pop a few pieces of bread in the toaster, not quite looking at him. "I'm sorry."

John sipped his coffee. It scalded his tongue.

"That was. . . that was your first brush with the supernatural then?" Jess asked.

"Yeah."

"So, I guess her death sort of started all this, then? The first domino tipping over. The pebble at the top of a landslide. The butterfly, beating its wings. And so on and so forth. Everything that's happened is because she died." She cracked another egg.

John stiffened, slightly. Jessica continued. "This one event, and you shaped your entire life around it, didn't you? Every move you made. Where you lived and what you did and how you raised your _children_. All because this woman died. Everything that's happened to you, and happened to Dean, and happened _Rex. . . _it all comes back to that."

Jess glanced at him with blue eyes and then looked away. "Guess some of us just have a bigger impact dead than we do alive."

John set his mug down on the counter with a dull ceramic clink. He moved towards her. "Now listen here, you-"

There was a noise from the doorway.

John turned and saw his youngest son standing there, eyes dark.

"If you touch her," Sam said quietly, "I will make you _hurt_."

"Sam-"

"Step away from her," Sam's voice was flat.

"T.," Jess said softly. "It's okay."

At his sides, Sam's fingers twitched, half-curling into fists.

John put his hands up and stepped back. "Easy, Sam."

His voice was low, the kind of tone he'd used on shell-shocked kids in green fatigues lifetimes and lifetimes ago. Sam's eyes followed him in a familiar way, haunted and wary. No one moved.

"Oh, _shit_," Jess exclaimed suddenly, breaking the taunt silence and spinning around. Smoke curled upwards, grey and thick, from the mess of what used to be eggs.

She yanked the pan off the stove and dumped the smoldering brown mess into the sink, swearing softly.

"Sam," John said, neither of them breaking eye contact amid the commotion. "I think it's time you and me talked, kid."

Sam nodded, "Yeah. I guess so."

On quiet feet he crossed the kitchen, fingertips trailing over Jess's arm as he passed her. John followed him out.

* * *

Dean padded into the kitchen, yawning. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and glanced over at the disaster in the sink as he sought out the coffee pot.

"Morning," He chirped. "Something smells terrible."

"Oh, shut up," Jess snapped.

He shrugged, pouring himself a cup and hunting for cream and sugar.

"So, eventful day so far, eh?"

"Yeah," Jess said, shoving a curl of blonde hair behind her ear. "We're off to a great start."

"Mm," Dean agreed, sipping his coffee. He settled back against the counter. "I find things go smoother when you don't act like a colossal bitch."

"What?" Jess asked, startled.

Dean took another sip. "That conversation you were attempting with my dad wasn't exactly kosher, Jess."

"You heard that, huh?" She asked, tapping a spatula agitatedly against the countertop.

"I was in the living room. That's like ten feet away. Come on." Dean eyed her. "Look, Jess, I don't know if you just get off on pushing people's buttons or what, but some things you should really just leave the hell alone. We don't need you coming in here and. . . kicking the sleeping dogs in the face."

"I was just trying to-"

"_Jess_. What, you were trying to provoke a reaction, get him to "see the light?" You think you can do that? You've known my brother for what, a little over a year? Okay, you're his girlfriend, sure. Maybe you get some say in that. But you've known _me_ for a _week_. My dad for less than a _day._ You think you _know_ our lives? You think you know what's best for us? Do you think you'll just come in and find out what's the cause of all our problems and just magically make it all better with a few words?"

Jess bit her lip and looked away.

Dean sighed. "My dad's wife is _dead_, Jess. My mom is _dead_. She died, and she's never coming back, and that's the kind of thing that fucks people up, alright? But even after that, my dad stuck around. He kept us safe. He taught us how to stay alive. You're worried hunting might get Sam killed? Our dad's the only reason Sam's survived this long. And you don't get to come in here with your judgements and a couple of psychology classes and talk shit about my dead mother, alright?"

Jess squeezed her eyes shut beneath Dean's gaze. "Yeah. Alright."

"Good." Dean nodded.

"Dean. . . I. . . I'm sorry," Jess said hesitantly.

Dean dragged a hand down the side of his face. "Okay. Fine. Now that that's settled, I think it's time I go check and make sure no one's committed homicide out there." He gestured at the door John and Sam had walked out of.

"Which one are you worried about?" Jess asked, eyebrow raised.

Dean shook his head. "I have no idea."


End file.
